Ends and Means
by E4flying
Summary: In the episode "Checkmate," Peter interferes in the fight between Neal and Keller, and everything turns out okay. What if he wasn't there? This picks up near the end of that episode, and explores a different path Neal's life could have taken. Spoilers for everything up to and including "Checkmate."
1. Chapter 1

_This story picks up during season three episode 11, "Checkmate." Spoilers for that episode and everything before it._

 _I don't own anything. If I did, Matt would find himself shirtless on TV very often._

* * *

Peter was pacing at the rendezvous spot, holding tightly onto his phone. "Neal's not picking up. I think something went wrong."

Mozzie looked down at his feet, trying to hide his worries for the sake of the man with a missing wife.

Peter's phone rang, and he put it to his ear immediately. "Neal."

"Disappointed?" Elizabeth's voice responded over the phone.

"El." Peter breathed out over the phone, his knees nearly buckling in relief.

"She's ok?" Mozzie demanded, but Peter didn't pay him any attention.

"I'm safe," Elizabeth said.

"Oh, thank god."

"They caught they guy holding me. Are you alright?"

Trust Elizabeth to ask him if he was okay, when she was just kidnapped. "I am now," Peter responded. "Where are you?"

"Uh, 23rd and 3rd. They're taking me home."

Peter looked at Mozzie, and Mozzie could tell exactly what he was thinking.

"Go," Mozzie said. "I'll get Neal."

Peter gave him a look of appreciation. "El, I'm coming."

"I love you, hon."

"I love you too."

Peter hung up, and looked at Mozzie hesitantly. "I'm going to need to get in one of these cars," he said, gesturing to the cars behind him.

"Already done." Mozzie opened the door, and Peter slipped inside. Within a minute, he'd driven off.

Mozzie looked at his note pad, where he had tracked the most obvious escape routes, in case they needed them. Now he was glad that he did, as it was probably where Keller was taking the treasure, and by extension, Neal. Quickly he got in the other car and drove off.

* * *

 _For those of you just starting, I know the chapter numbers are daunting. Please note that most of them are quite short. I am grateful for every person who reads my stories all the way through-I'm serious about that-and I just want to leave some encouragement here in the hopes that you don't give up on this. Thank you all!_


	2. Chapter 2

Neal woke up with a throbbing headache, and flicked on the lighter that he felt next to him. He was lying in the back of the truck, with the small fire being the only thing allowing him to see. He sat up slowly, groaning at the pain that movement caused.

He set the lighter down, and used both his hands and his feet to push against the wall of the truck. It took some force, but he finally was able to push it open. As he did, however, all the boxes shifted and a few fell out. He felt the truck stop, and he knew that Keller saw.

The nearest box had opened from the movement, and Neal pulled an ancient gold shield out of the top. He didn't want to damage any part of the treasure, but knowing Keller, he had a gun. And Neal would need something with which to defend himself.

"Caffrey," Keller's drawling voice called out. "Come on, Caffrey, I know you're in there. There's no way out, buddy."

Neal shoved the shield in front of him, holding on tightly. A bullet banged off its metal exterior, and he pushed forward, knocking the gun out of Keller's hands. He jumped out of the truck, and he and Keller immediately started circling each other. Keller grabbed Napoleon's staff with the sphinx on top from the side of the truck.

"You and me, to the bitter end, huh?" asked Keller, a smirk playing on his face.

Neal tilted his head. _Bring it on._

Keller struck first, swinging the staff like a baseball bat towards Neal's head. Neal parried the blow, and the second one that followed, and then swung the shield forward and connected satisfyingly with Keller's face. Keller stumbled backwards, wiped at the blood coming from his face, and looked at Neal. "Alright," he said.

He swung again, and Neal ducked, but on the second swing he made contact with Neal's shoulder and Neal fell to the ground. Keller advanced again, trying to hit him while he was down, but Neal got the shield in front of him. The staff glanced off the shield, and Neal punched, landing a blow to Keller's face. This time Neal advanced, swinging the shield toward Keller. The staff flew out of his hand, and Neal struck again. Keller backpedaled, and spotted the Rafael laying on the ground. Keller grabbed the painting off the ground, holding it in an attacking position.

"Not a Rafael," Neal said, lowing the shield. "You wouldn't."

Keller shrugged, and Neal knew what was about to happen a split second before it did. The painting came flying at his head, too fast for him to react. Pain blossomed as his body went flying towards the ground. He landed face down on the pavement.

Behind him he could hear Keller walking to pick up the staff. He tried to get up, not even noticing the blood that ran down his forehead and dotted his knuckles.

"First rule of a fight," Keller said. "Always go for the weak spot."

Neal was trying to push himself up, but it was too late. Keller swung the staff down, hard, against his side, and Neal found himself back face down on the pavement. He swung again, his time connecting at his lower back. Neal could no longer move, no longer try to fight, he lay in pain on the ground trying to hold on to his body and stay conscious. Keller swung the staff again, hitting his back with tremendous force. Neal cried out in pain, unmoving on the ground, and his eyes closed.

Keller knew his foe was unconscious. He started picking up all the remaining pieces of the treasure and packing them back into the truck, then closed it securely. He picked up his gun. He knew he could kill Neal Caffrey right then and there, but he found he didn't want to. He couldn't wait to play the next round.

Keller got back in the truck and drove away.


	3. Chapter 3

Mozzie was speeding towards the docks, when he saw something in the middle of the street. Or rather some _one_.

"Oh my—" Mozzie ran out of the car, and crouched beside Neal on the ground. "Neal. Neal, wake up." He shook him gently, but there was no response. He checked Neal's pulse, and was relieved to feel it beat steadily against his fingers.

It went against everything Mozzie believed, but he took out a burner phone and dialed.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

Mozzie swallowed his fear. Neal deserved the best treatment, better than what Mozzie could give him this time. "My friend is unconscious. He was in a fight, I don't know what happened."

"Ok, sir, where are you?"

Mozzie gave the emergency dispatcher the street he was on, and then hung up. It only took five minutes for the ambulance to get there, but it felt like an eternity sitting beside his best friend's unconscious body.

"What happened?" asked the first paramedic as he exited the ambulance.

"He was in a fight, I think," Mozzie responded.

"Ok, stand back, sir, we're going to take care of him."

Mozzie nodded and stood back, allowing them to take care of Neal.

"What's his name?" the second paramedic asked as she checked his eyes.

"Mark Walder," Mozzie responded. It was an old alias that he and Neal had discussed years earlier, one that would mean they are in trouble or hurt. They never had to use it before. It was the first one that Mozzie thought of.

"We're going to take him to the hospital now," the paramedic told him, and Mozzie was astonished to find that Neal was already immobilized on a backboard. "Do you want to ride along?"

Mozzie shuttered. "I'll follow."


	4. Chapter 4

_I'm sorry, I know a lot of you want longer chapters, but this one is short too. They'll be longer in the future._

* * *

They got to the hospital, and Mozzie was given a form to fill out about Neal. He was uncomfortable in the germ-infested place, but he remembered what Neal had done for him after he had been shot and he knew he owed it to Neal to do the same. Once the forms were filled out, Mozzie was given Neal's belongings, including his tie and his phone. The phone had two missed calls from Peter Burke, but none since Peter had left Mozzie to go see his wife. Mozzie wondered how long it would take him to ask what had happened to Neal.

It was a long wait in the hospital, but one Mozzie was willing to do for Neal. A doctor came out to talk to Mozzie after an hour, and told him that Neal was still unconscious. They had run full body scans to figure out why, and they found significant damage to his back, along with a mild concussion. Mozzie nodded numbly, and the doctor left with a promise to run more tests.

Another hour passed, and then two, and as the sun set in the sky and the clock ticked towards the fourth hour that Mozzie spent in the hospital, the doctor came out again.

Mozzie rose out of the chair he'd been sitting in for the last several hours to speak to him.

"I'm afraid I have bad news," the doctor said. "You're friend, Mark, suffered repeated blows to his lower back. After a second set of scans, we found there was damage to his spinal cord. We took him up to surgery immediately, but there was nothing we could do. A bone in his spine was struck with a lot of force, and it splintered the spinal cord. Luckily it was a low break, but your friend will be paralyzed from the waist down."

"He—what?"

"He'll never walk again."


	5. Chapter 5

Peter rushed home as fast as he could, and parked haphazardly on the street before running into his house. Elizabeth was waiting inside, and the two ran into each other's arms. They kissed, and Peter vowed he would never lose her again.

"Hey hon," he said, as he hugged her close to his chest.

"Hey hon," she whispered in his ear.

They stood like that, hugging each other tightly, for what felt like forever but wasn't nearly long enough. Finally he had to step back, but he took her hand firmly in his.

"Thanks Diana, Jones," he said, turning to look at them. "We're good. You guys did good work, now you should go home. I'll see you two tomorrow."

Jones smiled at them, and Diana said, "Thanks, boss," and then it was just Peter and Elizabeth.

"You're sure you're ok?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and they kissed again.

Elizabeth went upstairs to take a shower while Peter ordered takeout to be delivered, but for the rest of the night they were no farther than two feet away from each other at all times. When the sun was finally setting in the New York sky, they climbed in bed and held on to each other tightly, wishing away the bad dreams they knew they would both have.

The morning came and Peter's alarm went off, like always. He groaned and rolled over, silencing it. Neither him nor Elizabeth had slept very well, both waking up with nightmares throughout the night, but they shoved those thoughts aside and stayed for a few extra minutes curled up in bed together.

"I can call in sick to work today if you want," Peter said.

"No, you should go," Elizabeth said. "You'll have to follow up on what happened yesterday, and you should make your peace with Neal."

"Will you be okay?" Peter asked.

"I'll be just fine. I have meetings scheduled all day, I will be with others the whole time, and I'll be too busy to even think about yesterday. Don't you worry about me."

Peter kissed her before rolling out of bed to get dressed.

An hour later Peter was sitting at his desk in his office, looking through a pile of new cases he had to address. He finally pushed them aside and glanced at the clock. Mortgage fraud could wait—he supposed he could no longer push off talking to Neal.

But when he glanced up, he saw Neal's desk was empty. He frowned, and went down the stairs.

"Diana. Where's Neal?"

"I don't know, boss," she said. "Maybe he's late?"

"No, Neal's never late," Peter said. "Pull up his tracking data."

Diana pulled up a screen on her computer, and then frowned.

"Oh, I forgot he wasn't wearing it yesterday," Peter said.

"Do you think he ran? Took off with Keller and the treasure, maybe?"

Peter thought about it for a second, then shook his head. "He told me yesterday he didn't want to leave, that he had a life here. I don't think he would leave right after that, not without knowing if El is okay, and especially not with Keller."

"Okay," Diana conceded.

Peter took out his phone and called Neal. "Went to voicemail," he said. "I'm going to swing by his apartment, I'll be on my cell if you need me."

Peter arrived at June's mansion in short time, and made his way up to Neal's room. He knocked, but when no one responded, he let himself in.

The minute he saw the table, he knew something was wrong. Everything was exactly how they had left it the day before—down to the pen Neal had used to draw the plan and the water glass Peter drank from. Neal hadn't been there since yesterday.

Peter took out his phone and tried calling Neal again, but there was still no answer. Next he tried Jones. "Jones, do you have Keller's location?"

"We've been tracking the truck you gave us, and it was found abandoned off of the highway, near the docks. Do you want us to follow up?"

"No. Keller's gone to ground already, we're not going to find him. I need you and Diana to focus now on finding Neal. There's a chance he's with Keller, willingly or otherwise. I'm at his apartment now, he's definitely not here."

"We're on it, Peter."

"Thanks, Jones."

Peter drove back slowly to the office, thinking about the previous day's events. He thought about the call he got from El, and being unable to reach Neal. He thought about leaving Mozzie to get Neal, so he could go home to his wife. And he remembered that he spent all night with her, thinking and worrying about her, and not reaching out to Neal.

He wondered if he'd made a mistake.


	6. Chapter 6

Mozzie sat in Neal's hospital room, waiting for him to wake up. It was almost midnight, and the doctor said Neal would awaken soon from the sedation they had used for the surgery. Mozzie hated the confines of the room, and the hospital smell it had, but he remembered waking up to see Neal's face after he was shot and he didn't want Neal to wake up alone.

The Suit still hadn't called, and while Mozzie realized he was spending time with Mrs. Suit, he couldn't help but be furious at him. Neal had wanted to stay in New York because of him, and this was how he was repaid. It just showed you couldn't trust anyone with the government.

Neal started stirring, Mozzie got up from his chair to stand over him.

"Neal?"

"Moz?" he croaked, his eyes cracking open a sliver before shutting again.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, nearly laughing with relief. It had been hours since he found him lying face down in the street, and it was great to hear his voice again.

Neal seemed to be drifting off to sleep again, but suddenly his eyes shot open. "Elizabeth. Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's good. She's home with the Suit right now."

"That's good," Neal said.

"Neal, I have to tell you, I brought you here under an alias," Mozzie said.

Neal was silent for a moment, staring off into space, and Mozzie wondered if the drugs that were keeping him pain-free were also messing with his head. Then his head turned and he looked at Mozzie, the ends of his lips curling upwards into a weak smile. "Mark Walder?"

"Yeah," Mozzie said.

"Our distress signal." He laughed, but it came out broken and soft with exhaustion. "I guess the time was right."

His eyes were drooping closed, and Mozzie didn't want to tell him yet. He realized he was being selfish, but he convinced himself that Neal would want as many hours as he could thinking he still had the use of his legs. He'd tell him tomorrow. "Go to sleep, Neal."

Neal nodded and shut his eyes, and within minutes he was fast asleep.

The morning came too quickly, and Mozzie was woken up by the sun's first rays poking through the shades in Neal's hospital room. He remembered he had refused to leave the night before, and so he had slept uncomfortably in the hospital-provided chair next to Neal's bed.

He looked over at Neal, and saw he was still asleep. He looked rather peaceful, and Mozzie dreaded breaking the news to him even more. It could break him.

Mozzie got up and used the bathroom, and then checked all of his phones. None of them showed new messages or missed phone calls, including Neal's. He thought for a minute, and then chose a phone carefully.

"Matthew Keller," he said softly into the phone when the person on the other end picked up. "Put the price back on. And tell everyone its for Neal Caffrey."

He hung up, satisfied. If Keller ever showed his face in the greater New York City area again, he'd be dead within a day.

Mozzie put the phones away, and looked at Neal again. As conmen, the two of them never knew what the future would hold, but now everything was different. Now it looked like Neal wouldn't have a future, not as a thief, at least. And as much as he claimed he loved the life he had built for himself, Mozzie knew there had always been a part of him that yearned for the rush of the con. He didn't know how Neal would change now that he could no longer jump off buildings or climb through air ducts.

It was seven in the morning when Neal woke up again. He seemed more awake than the night before, and he greeted Mozzie with a small smile. "Hey, Moz. Were you here all night?"

"Of course," Mozzie said.

Neal looked taken aback and grateful, but stayed quiet, knowing they were both uncomfortable with articulated emotions.

"Neal…" Mozzie started speaking, but trailed off. He wasn't sure if he could do this, but he knew he had to.

"What, Mozzie?"

"The doctor will probably be in here soon to talk to you, but there's something you might what to hear from me first."

Neal looked at him, and Mozzie swallowed. "Keller—he, um, hit your back a few times, right?"

"Yeah."

"The doctor said your spinal cord was severed. They opened you up, probably implanted some government computers…" he trailed off. He couldn't even put his heart into a conspiracy theory. "There's no way to fix it."

Neal blinked, his clear blue eyes startlingly bright. "So… I can't walk? Ever?"

Mozzie shook his head. He reached out and grabbed Neal's hand, even though it made him even more uncomfortable.

There was silence in the hospital room, and Mozzie looked down at his feet to avoid facing Neal.

Finally Neal broke the silence. "Thank you, Mozzie," he whispered. "For telling me. And for staying here. But you can go."

At that, Mozzie looked up sharply. "What?"

"You don't have to stay here, you don't have to take care of me. I know you don't want to. So you should go, live your life, achieve the impossible." His face was blank, and Mozzie recognized the mask he put on in front of others to hide his emotions—a mask he never used for Mozzie.

"I'm not going anywhere, mon frére. You're my best friend, and you saved my life. I'll stay with you forever, as long as you want me to."

The mask broke and it was replaced by a small smile and a tear trailing down his cheek. "I'll never walk," he whispered. "I'll never run, I'll never jump, I'll never con or steal. Mozzie, what am I going to do?"

Mozzie didn't have an answer for that, so he stayed quiet, and gently squeezed Neal's hand.


	7. Chapter 7

The doctor came in later and explained everything to Neal. Neal was the perfect conman, answering to Mark and reacting as if he'd never heard the information. Mozzie stood to the side and wondered if he was witnessing Neal's last con.

Neal asked all the right questions, and he learned that he would only have to stay in the hospital for another day. Then he'd go to a rehabilitation facility, where he'd get his wheelchair and learn to use it. The doctor estimated it would be two to three months at least before he could go home.

When he left, Mozzie looked at Neal. The doctor had elevated his bed, so it was easier now to to talk to him, but Mozzie didn't know what to say.

"So, Elizabeth is okay," Neal said.

"Yeah," Mozzie answered.

"And… does Peter know?" Neal asked, almost hesitantly.

Mozzie shook his head. "He hasn't called. I'm the only one that knows right now."

Neal nodded. "I'm sure he'll call soon."

Mozzie handed him his phone. "You'll know when he does."

Neal looked down at the covers over his legs. "Moz… do I have the anklet on?" He looked embarrassed, and Mozzie knew why. "I didn't have it on yesterday, but I, um, can't feel anything. Can you check, please?"

Mozzie nodded and moved the covers away from Neal's feet. They were bare, as he was dressed only in a hospital gown. "No anklet," he said.

"In that case…" Neal trailed off, and looked like he was weighing his options. "In that case, let's go."

"What?"

"You have some savings still, even though you lost the treasure, right?"

"I always have a backup plan," Mozzie responded.

"Let's find a rehab place in Europe. Get out of here."

"I thought you didn't want to leave. What about the Suit?"

"I only bring Peter and Elizabeth trouble, I think we've realized that by now. Besides, he doesn't want me around anymore. He made that very clear yesterday. It's not like I can consult for the FBI anymore anyway, not if I can't go undercover. And I can't go to prison. I won't survive it this time around, we both know that."

"He'll look for you," Mozzie said. "You know him, he'll try to track you down."

"I'll give him a call, tell him I'm fine and he can stop looking."

Mozzie snorted. "That won't stop him."

"He won't find me, Mozzie. Neal Caffrey will disappear, I'll take a new name. Live a normal life, I guess. Get a job. It's not like I can do anything else anymore."

"If that's what you want, I'll make it happen. The Suit will never find you. But, Neal, are you sure that's what you want?"

Neal squared his jaw and nodded firmly, once.

"So that's it. I'll talk to your doctor, tell him you want to recuperate at a rehab place close to your family in France. Once he's cleared you to travel, we'll go. Do you want to stay Mark Walder?"

"Might as well change it now. New country, new name, new life. Can you change the name on the medical files?"

Mozzie nodded. "Of course. And I'll get passports. Any preferences?"

Neal thought for a second, before saying, "Daniel Thomas."

"American, with the possibility to be French," Mozzie nodded, approvingly.

"Actually, make it Daniel Neal Thomas."

Mozzie recognized the sentimentality but didn't comment on it. "Is there anyone you want me to tell? No one you want to see before you go?"

Neal shook his head. "Don't tell anyone, Moz. It'll be easier that way."

Mozzie nodded and started to walk out the door, before Neal stopped him.

"June," he said. "I owe her that."

"Okay," Mozzie said. "I'll have her bring you some clothes, too. I'll be back tonight. Try to rest, Neal."

Neal's phone rang, and the screen read "Peter Burke." Neal saw it, and let it go to voicemail.


	8. Chapter 8

It was lunchtime, and Peter had promised to have lunch with his wife. He wasn't going to skip that, but he was officially worried about Neal. He wasn't answering his calls, and Peter couldn't track him down. Before he left for lunch, he told Diana and Jones to officially file a missing persons report for him.

Lunch with Elizabeth was short, as they both had work they had to return to, but Peter tried to keep conversation light. He didn't want El to know that Neal was missing, and he certainly didn't want her to find out that Keller was still out there. He wouldn't lie to his wife, but he didn't want to worry her either.

After lunch he tried Neal's cell phone again, and again it went to voicemail. "Neal, I don't know if this message is even worth leaving, because you might be kidnapped by Keller… or worse. But on the off chance that you're listening, give me a call, please. I'm worried. Whatever happened with the treasure, whatever your part in it was, you helped get Elizabeth back. And I'm extremely thankful for that. I know you're probably staring prison straight in the face, but I'll do what I can. You've been a great partner to me these past couple years, despite our ups and downs. And I couldn't forgive myself if Keller hurts you because of all of this." He sighed, and it was audible on the machine. "I'm basically talking to myself right now. Anyway Neal, if at any time you hear this, just know that… I don't regret it all. Parts, for sure." He laughed, rather self-consciously. "But you were worth it. God, Neal, if you're really gone…" He hung up the phone. There was nothing left to say.

Peter turned back the file in front of him. He still wasn't sure if there should be a manhunt for a fugitive or a kidnapped person, but the procedure was roughly the same. They contacted the local authorities, put his face on posters around heavily populated areas, and started running aliases, both his and Keller's. As of that night, there were no hits. Peter even ran Neal's name and his aliases through a hospital search, in case he was able to get away from Keller and make it to a hospital. But Neal, George, Nick, Steve, or any of the other aliases that Peter knew about had been hospitalized.

Peter left the office at six, needing to be with his wife. But Neal was in the back of his mind. If Keller really had him, as he thought he did, Peter wanted to be out there finding him. After all, Neal saved Peter when Keller kidnapped him, and played an integral role in saving Elizabeth when Keller kidnapped her (regardless of whose fault that was in the first place). Peter owed it to Neal to save him from Keller.

But he made a promise to himself the minute he heard El's voice over the phone at his house: nothing would ever come before his commitment to her, especially Neal. And he wasn't about to leave Elizabeth alone at night the day after she was kidnapped, especially with the knowledge that Keller was still out there somewhere.

It was another low key dinner, and another restless night. Peter's dreams started off identical as the ones from the night before: watching Elizabeth being kidnapped and hurt, with him unale to help. He woke up breathing hard, and when he finally fell asleep again he dreamed that Elizabeth and Neal were both kidnapped and Keller told him he had to choose one to save. Elizabeth was returned to him safe and sound. Neal was returned in a body bag. Peter woke up, only just holding in a scream. It was four in the morning, and he decided he would get some coffee. Sleep wasn't coming after that.

He knew it was early in the morning, but he called Neal again anyway. "You've reached Neal. Big Brother is listening, leave a message at your own risk."

Peter hung up, staring at the phone. He wished he could get in contact with Mozzie, but he didn't know how. Mozzie would never trust him enough to give him any of his phone numbers. He supposed if Neal were in trouble, Mozzie would let him know. Eventually, anyway.

Peter put down the phone and went back upstairs. He lay awake next to Elizabeth, wondering where Neal was and if he was counting on Peter to save him.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a soft knock on the door, and Neal wiped his hands over his face and through his hair. "Come in."

The door opened and June walked in. "Neal."

His name, spoken with such love, almost brought him to tears. "June."

She came over to his bed and held his hand.

"Did Moz tell you?" Neal asked, his voice cracking.

She shook her head, and tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear.

"I'm paralyzed," he whispered.

"And you're leaving?" she asked, but she already knew the answer.

"I can't stay here, not now."

She reached over to hug him, and he pushed himself off the mattress with one hand to hug her back.

"You're always welcome back," June whispered in his ear.

When they finally broke away, Neal had tears streaming down his face. "Thank you, June. For everything. I can't thank you enough."

June wiped the tears from his face with a sad smile of her own, before she tactfully changed the subject. The two talked for hours about art, music, and even wine, until it was late and Mozzie came back.

"Mozzie," June greeted graciously when he entered the room.

"Hi June," he responded.

"I think I must be going now," she said, turning to speak to Neal. "You are a wonderfully talented person, Neal. I hope you remember that. And that won't change no matter what your legs can or can't do."

"I'm changing my name," Neal responded. "I can't be Neal Caffrey anymore. But I'd love to keep in touch with you, even though I can't ever come back here. Do you think you can keep it away from Peter?"

June smiled. "I have a few tricks left up my sleeve. I'll be waiting your call."

With that, she marched out of the hospital room, without saying goodbye. Neal understood; people like them didn't say goodbyes. And she was still holding out for a next time.

"She's a magnificent woman," Mozzie said. "I'm going to miss her."

Neal just stared out the door behind her.

"You got the passports?" he finally said, breaking his trance.

Mozzie tossed two passports onto the bed, within Neal's arm's reach.

"Daniel Neal Thomas and Jim Thomas." Neal said, looking through the small blue books. "Really, Jim?"

"That's temporary for me," Mozzie said. "It'll make traveling and accomodations easier, if they think I'm your brother."

"Much older brother," Neal muttered, and Mozzie chose to ignore that. Neal was in much higher spirits after talking with June, and he appreciated the banter with his friend.

Neal grabbed his phone from his nightstand. There were several missed calls from Peter, including one voicemail.

"You want me to get rid of that for you?" Mozzie asked. "You're not going to need it anymore."

"No, I'll use it to call Peter before we leave tomorrow." Neal wasn't sure that he wanted to listen to the voicemail, but he decided he would keep the phone instead of destroying it. Just in case he wanted to hear Peter's voice again. Mozzie would never have to know.


	10. Chapter 10

Two small duffels were packed, Neal was cleared for travel, and Mozzie had gotten together all the necessary paperwork. First class tickets were booked, and the doctors had told Neal he would be most comfortable if he spent at least the majority of the flight reclining. That was fine with Neal, as he intended to sleep on the long flight to France.

The hospital wouldn't allow Neal to travel unless they supervised him on the way to the airport, so they could judge if movement was causing him any pain around his stitches. Neal couldn't even feel the stitches, but he understood that he had to follow the protocol. His life was about to become a whole lot of guidelines he had to follow anyway, so he might as well abide by this one. He almost laughed when he thought of what Peter would say in response to him not challenging the rules. Almost.

There was one useful thing about the protocol: the hospital insisted on an ambulance, which Mozzie refused to get into, so Neal had some time to himself on the way to the airport. He decided it was as good of a time as any to call Peter—he didn't want the call to be traced and lead Peter to France, anyway.

He was still lying completely horizontally on a gurney, but he tried to muster up that old Caffrey swagger as he dialed Peter's number.

It rang only once before Peter picked up. "Neal?"

"Hey, Peter."

"Oh my god, Neal, where are you? Are you okay?" Peter demanded, and Neal had to hold the phone away from his ear.

"Yeah, I'm great." The lie tasted bitter in Neal's mouth, and he realized it was the first time he'd ever lied to Peter. "Mozzie and I left town. Don't look for us, it'll just make things harder."

"Neal, you're a fugitive. You'll be a wanted man, and I'll find you again. You know I will, and this time I won't have a choice but to put you in prison."

"You won't find me this time, Peter, so it's not worth looking. And it's not like I would gain anything from staying—you would have to lock me up anyway. This is goodbye."

"Neal, wait!"

There was a long pause, but Neal didn't hang up. He wasn't sure why.

"I guess I need to thank you, for your help in finding El. I don't think I can forgive you for going behind my back, and causing harm to my family, but I have to acknowledge the risk you took working with Keller. That can't have been easy."

Peter would never know just how hard it had been, and what it had cost Neal.

Peter continued, "And I will look for you. I have to, Neal, it's my job. And, well, I want to see you again. After all we've been through, we can't just leave it like this."

"This is the end, Peter. I'm saying goodbye."

Neal wasn't sure that Peter was going to respond. But then he heard a quiet, "Goodbye." The call disconnected.


	11. Chapter 11

Peter had just gotten to his office and sat down in his chair when his cell phone rang. He grabbed it out of his pocket, his heart leaping in his chest at seeing who was calling. "Neal?"

Neal's voice responded, sounding upbeat, but with an undercurrent of _something_ Peter couldn't quite put his finger on. "Hey, Peter."

"Oh my god, Neal, where are you? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm great. Mozzie and I left town. Don't look for us, it'll just make things harder."

Peter frowned. He just left? After everything that had happened? "Neal, you're a fugitive," he found himself saying, as if that fact had escaped Neal's mind before and hearing it would make him come home. "You'll be a wanted man, and I'll find you again. You know I will, and this time I won't have a choice but to put you in prison."

"You won't find me this time, Peter, so it's not worth looking," Neal responded. Typical Caffrey ego, thinking he was unbeatable. "And it's not like I would gain anything from staying—you would have to lock me up anyway. This is goodbye."

"Neal, wait!" Peter cried out. He had to keep him on the line, there were things he still needed to say. "I guess I need to thank you, for your help in finding El. I don't think I can forgive you for going behind my back, and causing harm to my family, but I have to acknowledge the risk you took working with Keller. That can't have been easy. And I will look for you. I have to Neal, it's my job. And, well, I want to see you again. After all we've been through, we can't just leave it like this."

"This is the end, Peter. I'm saying goodbye."

Peter swallowed roughly. He was so angry with Neal still, but he wasn't sure what to do. He was clearly intent on leaving, and yelling wouldn't do anything. And as much as he wanted to yell at Neal, he equally wanted to reason with him. Their relationship had become more than FBI agent and consultant. He wasn't sure he wanted that to end. On top of that, there wasn't actually any proof that he stole the treasure, and the FBI had never actually seen it, so he probably wasn't facing jail at all. But running away would break his parole, which would land him back in jail. In the end, Peter realized the finality of Neal's tone. He was running, and he was giving a chance for Peter to say goodbye. Peter would chase him, to the ends of the earth if it came down to it, but right now he was being given a chance to say goodbye to a friend.

"Goodbye." It came out whispered, and not at all right. But then the call was disconnected, and the moment was over.

Peter sat in his chair, not quite sure of what happened, but after a minute he pushed himself up and went to gather his team in the conference room.

"Neal Caffrey is a fugitive," he said to the group. "While catching Matthew Keller is still a priority, I have received confirmation that Caffrey was not taken by Keller. He chose to run on his own, thus breaking his parole, and making him a fugitive. I want everyone to run his name, his aliases, find out where he's going. We've done it twice before, people. Now it's time to find Neal Caffrey, for the third time."


	12. Chapter 12

The flight to France went as smoothly as it was humiliating for Neal. He was lifted off the bed and into a wheelchair, pushed through the airport (and patted down awkwardly by security), and again lifted from the wheelchair into the seat in the airplane. He felt like a baby, allowing everyone to carry him and do his tasks for him. Thank goodness he still had the use of his bodily functions, he couldn't even think of what they would put him through for this trip if he didn't. Nevertheless that was a small reassurance as a young doctor helped him use the bathroom before the long flight.

They arrived in France right at the scheduled time, and Neal was again lifted out of the seat and into a wheelchair. Mozzie pushed him all the way out of the airport, where they were met by people from the rehabilitation facility that Neal would call his home for the next three months.

The young nurse tasked with pushing him to the van that would take him to the rehab center was chatty and quite pretty, but Neal didn't even have it in him to flirt.

As time passed, Neal grew more accustomed to his changed body. At first he found simple things hard, like sitting up on his own and getting dressed. But he had always been a quick learner, and he applied himself entirely to learning how to use his chair until he could be completely independent of others. The hardest part to learn was transferring into and out of his chair. But once he'd mastered that, everything else seemed to just stack into place.

For once, he paid attention to every direction given to him and followed every rule—his highly structured day was what was getting him ready for life on his own. He spent hours learning new workouts from physical therapists, so he could strengthen his upper body and core to be able to support his now useless lower body.

Mozzie visited every night, still posing as his brother. He brought wine sometimes, and he and Neal were able to have those long, mentally stimulating conversations over alcohol that they so enjoyed. Mozzie had been house hunting—for Neal, of course. He would never buy himself a "real" house, as it would be subscribing to society's rules, but he found he rather enjoyed looking for the perfect house for Neal. It was a con, really, pretending to be a different person in every new house he looked at. He evaluated them all on accessibility and location, without regards to price. This was something Mozzie wanted to do for Neal, without him knowing. If he had to take a few jobs far away from there to cover the price, he was more than willing to. He wanted to surprise Neal with the house because he knew that Neal was surviving rehab by having a goal—to know his chair like it was the natural extension of his body. But once he was cleared, that goal would be reached and he'd be on his own again. Mozzie needed to give him something to start from, or he worried his friend would spiral downward, worse than the path he'd taken after Kate's death. Mozzie wanted to lead him out of rehab into a new, accessible house, with an easy route to the French museums and cafés, and his own art studio.

Mozzie finally found the perfect house three weeks after they got to France. It was close enough that he could get to the middle of Paris on his own, if he wanted to, and it was a spacious one story building with low hanging cabinets and appliances in easy reach of Neal's chair. Mozzie transformed the office space in the back into a dream art studio, even installing a skylight to allow natural light to come in. And, of course, the finishing touch was a large oven in which he could age any forgeries he made… if he so chose to.

And it was a good thing Mozzie found the house so fast, and it didn't need much remodeling. Neal had been scheduled for nearly three months of inpatient therapy in the rehab center, but after a month and a half they declared that he was ready to leave. There was a small party in his room, and all his doctors and therapists came to wish him luck. Of course, he would be coming back for therapy at least every week for a while, to make sure his muscles were adjusting well to his new situation and not straining too much to cause him further injuries, but Neal was saying goodbye to the only place he'd been in for the last month and a half. Mozzie stood off to the side and enjoyed seeing the smile stretch across Neal's face again.


	13. Chapter 13

The last morning of his stay in the rehab center, Mozzie showed up bright and early to Neal's room. He was already dressed, and had transferred into his chair. He wheeled his way towards Mozzie as he entered.

"The man of the hour. Are you ready to go?" Mozzie asked.

"Thrilled to be getting out of here, finally," was Neal's response.

They left the room, moving towards the exit. "Where are we going?" Neal asked.

"Your new house," Mozzie said.

"Wait, what? I thought we would hole up in a hotel until I found a place."

"I found you a place. Don't worry," he said, seeing the look on Neal's face, "I chose one based on your preferences, not mine."

Neal looked up at him with a mixture of confusion and gratitude on his face. "You didn't have to do that."

Mozzie smiled. "I wanted to."

They were silent as the went out the front doors of the rehab center, Mozzie carrying Neal's bag behind him down the ramp. Neal stopped at the end and looked up expectantly at Mozzie. "Where to?"

"It's close enough to walk," Mozzie said, "but I can get a car if you want."

Neal considered for a moment. Mozzie knew it would be a lot to ask for to wheel himself through Paris just after getting out of the sheltered rehab center, but he wanted to give him the option. To his surprise, Neal said, "I could use the fresh air. Let's walk."

Mozzie had been uncomfortable assigning a verb to Neal's movement, until the therapist at the rehab center made Neal talk to his "family and friends," which of course meant only Mozzie, and made them discuss what was often uncomfortable for paraplegics and others around them. It was awkward for them at first, both insisting they didn't need the structured talk, but it turned out helpful for both of them. And Neal decided he was fine with the term "walk" to describe his movements, as it was most natural.

It didn't take too long to get to Neal's new place, and Mozzie watched him the whole time. He was moving with ease, even if he was a bit slow on the turns, and he seemed to be taking in his surroundings. But when the went through more populated areas, Mozzie noticed all the side glances coming his way, and Neal did speed up just a bit.

"Stop here," Mozzie said, and Neal stopped and turned to look at the house in front of him. There was a path leading up to the front door, and Neal took it slowly, keeping his eyes on the house as he rolled up the ramp and stopped in front of the door. It looked rather small from the outside, but Mozzie was excited to show Neal the inside. He handed Neal a key, and Neal unlocked the door using the keyhole that was slightly lower than it would usually be.

The door swung open, and Neal rolled himself inside. He found himself in an open, spacious entryway. To his right was a living room, sparsely furnished with an off-centered couch pointed towards the wall, and large windows on each side of where Neal supposed a television would be placed.

The living room flowed easily into the kitchen, which was big and open. There were windows above the cabinets, which let in natural light, and also allowed the cabinets to be low enough to be within Neal's reach. The oven was on the ground, and as Neal continued away from the living room into the kitchen, he saw a small table with chairs on all sides but one, near to the kitchen to provide access but far enough to separate it.

Opposite the living room, on the other side of the door, was a large open room with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. It was empty for the time being. Neal rolled through it and towards the back of the house, where there was a door that cut off entry into the room. Neal found the door opened by sliding into the wall, making it easy to get in and out. Inside the room there was a very large bed, which was low to the ground, and plenty of space on each of its sides.

On one side of the room there was a large bathroom, complete with plenty of handrails and a roll-in shower for Neal. On the other side there was another door, and this was what Mozzie was so excited for. Neal rolled inside, and his breath was taken away. It was an artist's dream room, with lights on all sides to prevent a shadow, but also a large skylight for natural light. There were cabinets on one side that held brand new supplies, and a storage space for empty and finished canvasses. On one side was a large oven, and when Neal saw it he laughed out loud.

He turned his wheelchair around to face Mozzie, a small smile on his face—not the smile he used on a con, but a geniune one. "Mozzie, it's perfect. Thank you."

Mozzie turned and marched out of the room, refusing to make a moment happen. "I wasn't sure what to do with the empty room, and I didn't have time to do anything, anyway. I was thinking it could hold a wine collection, though." Mozzie dumped Neal's bag in his room and Neal glimpsed a walk-in closet with the hangers all close to the ground.

"The Mozzie-room?" he asked, and Mozzie could hear the smile on his face.

"Something like that. Speaking of which…" Neal trailed Mozzie into the kitchen, and saw him open a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses. "I thought we'd celebrate."

"To new places—" Mozzie said, looking around.

"—And new beginnings," Neal finished.


	14. Chapter 14

While the house was mostly all furnished, Neal and Mozzie spent the next day shopping and exploring Paris, and altogether having a good time. Mozzie was surprised but pleased at how natural Neal acted around strangers—it had to be weird to have to look up at new people you meet all of a sudden. He knew he'd been doing it at the rehab center, but that was different.

Neal stopped at a store on the outskirts of Paris and bought a burner phone and a post card, while Mozzie looked on curiously.

When they got home that night and had settled into the living room, each with a glass of wine, Neal said, "Thank you Mozzie. I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me, both with the house and before that. But, I think it's time that you go."

Mozzie's brow furrowed under his large glasses.

"You need the con, the rush, and probably the money. And I need time alone to figure out what to do next. I need to find a job, I need to get to know Paris and where I can go, and I need to meet people."

Mozzie nodded, understanding. "Okay, but I can be back here in a minute if you need me."

Neal laughed. "I won't need you. Where will you go?"

"I have a contact in Egypt. Maybe I'll go there, see if I can acquire some rare artifacts."

"Just make sure to stay away from here, and don't do anything I would've done. Peter's going to be checking for any museum heists, I don't want him to catch on to you and think you're me."

"Please," Mozzie snorted, "no government, American, Egyptian, or otherwise, will be the wiser."

"So you'll leave tomorrow, and I'll see you… when, in a month?"

"Give or take," Mozzie said. He paused. "If I can ask, what was the burner phone for that you bought earlier?"

"You of all people should understand the importance of always having a burner on hand," Neal said.

"I do," Mozzie answered, "but that's not why you bought it."

Neal smiled, knowing he'd been caught. "Grab me the post card and a pen, please?"

Mozzie got up and grabbed them from the kitchen, handing them to Neal. Neal flipped open the burner phone, copied down its number, and the addressed the postcard. He handed it to Mozzie.

A picture of the Eiffel Tower was on one side. On the other, the phone number, but no note. It was addressed to June Ellington.

Mozzie stood up, placing his empty glass of wine on the table. "I'll send it when I leave tomorrow. See you in a month, Neal."

Neal smiled as he watched Mozzie walk out. When the door shut, he whispered, "It's Daniel, now."


	15. Chapter 15

It had been a month since Elizabeth's kidnapping and Neal's disappearance, and Peter was frustrated. Officially, the bureau had made him set aside finding both Neal and Keller, but Peter (and by extension, Diana and Jones) were doing their best to continue the search for them.

Peter had figured it would just be a matter of time before a big heist would alert them to Neal—something flashy, to wave in Peter's face that Neal was still the best. Peter almost wished there would be, because he would have some inkling of where in the world Neal was. Instead, Peter was left with nothing to work off of. He had started by looking at countries with no extradition treaty with the United States, but he realized that Neal would rather run from place to place pulling off outrageous cons than sit bored on a tropical island, especially now that he didn't have the treasure.

But nothing worked. Neal seemed to have disappeared off the map entirely. And Peter was frustrated.

The hunt for Keller was different but equally aggravating. Keller popped up on their radar often, as it seemed he was selling off pieces of the treasure individually, but he never gave them enough for a warrant or stayed in one place long enough for them to set up surveillance. It seemed like he was running from place to place, never daring to stay for more than a few hours after he made himself known that he was in a certain location. Peter knew that this would be the kind of thing Neal would be able to explain, but of course he couldn't ask.

Aside from the extra workload he was trying to cover while at the office, Peter was also doing his best to get home to Elizabeth on time every night. They each had nightmares frequently, but they were dying down, and Peter was hopeful that with him home every night, their relationship would grow to be even more stable. And he had the locks changed, too.

A month and a half after his phone call with Neal, Peter got a break on one of his two under-the-table cases. It was Keller. Diana raced up to his office just after lunch.

"Boss. You know how you had us flag any reports of Keller made by the NYPD?"

Peter stared, unwilling to believe they'd actually found something.

"Well, the police just filed a report of a body found down near the docks. It's unidentified as of now, but there was a hesitant mention in the file that it could possibly be Keller."

Peter jumped up, and grabbed his jacket. "Let's go."

They drove down to the docks, Peter's mind racing. Could it be possible that Keller was really dead? He had always been a straight-line, justice seeking agent, but a small part of him knew he would be relieved, if not happy, for Keller to be gone from this world. Not for what he did to Peter, but for what he did to El.

The docks were swarming with officers in police blue, and Peter made his way over to the officer who was calling the shots. "Officer, I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, with the FBI. I hear you have a body recovered?"

"Yes, we found him on a sweep for drugs about an hour ago. Hasn't been identified."

"Maybe I can help with that," Peter said.

The officer nodded and lead him down a little ways until there was a body on a stretcher, covered in a white sheet. The policeman pulled the sheet down a bit, and Peter saw Matthew Keller's lifeless eyes staring up at him.

"That's Matthew Keller," Peter said. He swallowed roughly, and nodded for the officer to cover up the body again. "Cause of death?"

"It was a homicide," the officer said. "Took a bullet straight to the chest. Probably bled out within a minute, maybe two."

Peter looked around the area. "Think he's connected to these warehouses? The FBI was investigating him for a stolen Nazi treasure. Maybe he stashed it here?"

"Could be," the officer said. "We asked for a warrant, it should be coming in about now."

"Thanks, officer," Peter said. "Would you mind if the bureau took charge from here? You take care of the body, we'll investigate the warehouse."

The officer shrugged. "We get the win for the homicide? Fine by me. I'll have my boys give you the warrant as soon as its in, and then we'll be out of here."

Peter waited for the warrant while Diana called Jones to come down to the warehouses. If they were about to find what Peter thought they were about to find, they would need all hands on deck.

Peter wondered about how the treasure could be so close by for so long, while they knew nothing about it. He thought about Keller's habit of trying to sell parts of the treasure, and then disappearing again. And he thought about the manner in which he was killed, while taking in the locked doors of the warehouse. Clearly whoever did it wasn't trying to steal the treasure away from him, or the door would be picked. He paced back and forth while he thought, until finally he thought he had figured something out.

"Diana. Is it possible Keller had a price on his head, that we didn't know about?"

She thought about it. "Yeah, that would make sense. But who would do that?"

Peter remembered the conversation between Mozzie and Keller after he had gotten the truck that would help them with the break in.

 _"Oh, you are going to look adorable in this, Mozzie, eh?"_

 _"It's a shame I removed that price from your head."_

 _"Ah, put it back on. You'd make a great human shield."_

It was something he had dismissed at the time, too worried about Elizabeth to think of much else. Now he had no doubt about the circumstances behind Keller's death.

"The warrant is in," Diana said, shaking him from his thoughts. She grabbed it from a young officer and handed it to Peter.

"Alright, let's go see what's inside."

Peter cut the lock with a large pair of bolt cutters, and then he entered beside Diana and Jones, who had just gotten there. What they saw when they turned on the large overhead lights amazed them.

It was exactly how Peter remembered it from the u-boat. All the treasure—pieces of gold, priceless paintings, jewelry, you name it—was set up as if on display, all taken out of its boxes for what Peter assumed was Keller's vanity.

Peter had seen it before, but neither Diana nor Jones had. Diana's jaw dropped, and Jones let out a whistle. Peter gave them a moment to take it in, before he announced: "Call it in. We're going to have a long few days of cataloguing ahead of us."

Peter left Jones and Diana behind and left the warehouse for a minute. The NYPD had dispersed, taking Keller's body and leaving the area deserted and almost peaceful, with the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore not too far away. Peter exhaled forcefully and leaned back against the warehouse wall, his head in his hands. This was a win, a big one, and the higher-ups would probably reward him for it. But that's not what he was thinking about.

He had his mind on Neal; the only loose end in this case. If he could find him, he could tell him that Keller was dead and would go down for taking the treasure. Which meant Neal was cleared of that charge. Maybe if he found him he could convince him to come back and keep working with Peter on the anklet, even if more years were added for running away. Maybe Peter would get his friend back.


	16. Chapter 16

Mozzie had only been gone a week, but Neal was getting lonely in his new house. The first couple days he took advantage of the wine collection Mozzie had gotten him, getting out of his chair to lay on the couch and pretend he was still Neal Caffrey. The illusion ended quickly and harshly when he spilled wine on his floor and it took him nearly twenty minutes to clean it up.

Every day he went out, partially to explore Paris and partially to explore himself. He needed to feel comfortable going out in public in the chair, he knew that, so he pushed himself to get out of the house every morning. He no longer had just a two mile radius, but he knew if he didn't make the effort at the beginning, he would end up being a prisoner in his own home.

Neal was used to walking into a room and commanding the attention of everyone inside, but he was also used to always have the option of disappearing in plain sight, weaving between crowds and losing a pair of watchful eyes. Wheeling himself down a sidewalk in Paris, he never felt farther from Neal Caffrey. Daniel Thomas was looked at wherever he went, eyes focusing on him and then flicking away after a second. He knew he would get used to it and stop noticing it, but at the moment it was hard not to want to duck his head and slide into a crowd and disappear. Only he no longer had that option.

The other reason for his daily travels through Paris was in search of a job. He knew he needed one, and with the background that Mozzie had given Daniel Thomas, he was pretty much guaranteed any job he wanted, but that was the problem; he didn't know what he wanted. For all of his life, any job he did was made to be temporary. Now he was supposed to choose something that he might spend the rest of his life doing. And he completely didn't know where to begin.

One day he came home early from his exploration of Paris, disheartened and not even motivated enough to pick up something for dinner. He planned on having a glass of wine (okay, maybe more than one) and then going straight to bed, when his phone rang. It wasn't his cell phone. He pulled out the burner phone from his night stand and answered it, "Hello?"

"Neal, it's so great to hear your voice again." June's melodic voice traveled well over the phone's speakers, and Neal had to smile.

"And yours too, June."

"How are you?" she asked, and it was more than just a question for formalities.

"I'm doing alright," he answered. "I'm out of rehab and pretty mobile in my chair, but quite stuck in life. I'm not sure what my next step is."

"Tell me about Paris," June said.

They talked for a while, comparing Paris and New York, talking about their various museums, and Neal was already feeling lighter.

Finally, June said, "I'd like to send you a package. Can you give me your new name and address, or do we need a dead drop?"

Neal laughed. "I trust you, June. I always have. I'm Daniel Thomas, now. Actually, Daniel Neal Thomas."

He could almost hear June smile on the other end of the line. "A fitting tribute to the conman that waltzed into a thrift store."

Neal gave her his new address, and she promised he'd be getting a package in the next few days.

"June, what do you think I should do?" he said. "I've never had to pick a job before, something to actually support me instead of a short term stint for the purpose of accomplishing something with more lucrative rewards. I need some advice."

"You may have thought of your jobs like that before," June said, "but you've had quite a few and you've been very successful at them. You should keep in mind what you want to do, something that will make you happy, and then see what plays to your strengths. You were quite the consultant, you know."

This time Neal threw his head back and laughed. "June, are you suggesting I look into law enforcement?"

She laughed too. "Not necessarily. You're very talented, Daniel Neal Caffrey Thomas. I believe you'll find your path."

"Thank you, June. Once again, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"It's my pleasure, always."

They hung up, and Neal pushed his wheelchair around his bed. He opened a door and entered the room he hadn't been in since Mozzie had showed it to him. Inside, all his paints seemed to call to him, just waiting to be opened, to be used to make a masterpiece.

Neal painted all night. When the sun was just rising, Neal backed away from the canvas and looked at the view from his apartment at June's. Or rather, part of it. He set the canvas down beside the three other finished ones, and together they made the New York City skyline as seen from his old apartment.

It was morning, but Neal was far from tired. In fact, he was inspired. He decided he'd go into town and see if there was any way he could get something to hang the canvases in his house—if not, he'd have to wait for Mozzie to return. He got out of the shower and was just about to leave, when he grabbed his art supplies, packed them up, and brought them with him. After breakfast, he thought, he'd stop at the Louvre.

The waiter at the café was sweet and the weather was beautiful, but Neal nearly devoured his croissant. All he wanted to do was paint.

The Louvre had its usual volume of tourists, but the wing where Neal went was nearly empty. It held a display of Monet's work, and that's what Neal wanted to focus on. For once, he found himself not wanting to reproduce it (okay, forge it) but to let it inspire him. He hadn't brought all of his supplies with him, but he took out a brush and one of the few colors he had and let his arm guide him.

He had been painting for two hours when he became aware that there was someone behind him. He finished the stroke and reluctantly turned away from the canvas.

The woman behind him was a small blond, with dark brown eyes and delicate features, and her bright hair tucked back into a bun. She was gorgeous, Neal thought, and he couldn't help but flash an old Caffrey smile. "Can I help you?"

"I was just admiring your painting," she said, her French accent coloring her perfect English. "It's beautiful."

Neal wasn't sure how to respond to the praise, so he simply held out his hand. "Daniel Thomas," he said, brushing his lips gently over her hand when she offered it. "Enchanté."

"Michele Rousseau," she said, a tinge of blush appearing on her pale skin.

"Would you like to join me for a drink of coffee, Michele?" Neal asked.

"If it's okay with you," she said, "I'd like to stand here and watch you paint."

Neal was rather taken aback, but then he shrugged. "If that's what you wish."

He turned back to the canvas, trying to focus back in. It was easier than he thought it would be. After an hour and a half, he put his brush down and wheeled his chair back a bit. Michele was standing beside him. "What do you think?"

"Wonderful," she murmured. "And seeing you paint it makes it all the more special—you look so happy and peaceful when you paint."

It was Neal's turn to blush. "I'm afraid I have to take this back home, to dry. But how about I meet you back here tomorrow, and we'll have that cup of coffee."

"I would like that," she said. "Until tomorrow, Daniel." She walked off, her black dress and petite body sliding between the museum doors and out of sight.

Neal leaned back in his chair, unsure of what just happened. He packed away his supplies, and started heading towards the exit. On his way, he saw a large man standing in the corner of the entrance to the museum, looking at his watch. Neal turned, and there was another man who put his hand to his ear and nodded, and then spoke, even though no one was around him.

Neal was sure he knew what was about to happen, and he wheeled straight up to a security guard facing the street outside of the entrance. "Excuse me, I need to speak to your head of security. Now."

The man looked at him for a full second before nodding and reaching for his radio.

"Sir, there's a man who wants to speak with you."

"Hurry, it's an emergency," Neal begged, watching the first man out of the corner of his eye turn and walk deeper into the museum.

It seemed to take forever, but finally the head of security walked over to them. Neal recognized him by his badge, and went to meet him. "Sir, I'm sorry for the disruption, but you're about to be robbed."

The man stared at him for a second. "Why don't you come with me."

Neal followed the head of security towards the bank of elevators and took them up a flight, and then was lead to an empty office space. As soon as the man turned around, he said, "You're being robbed right now. You should alert your team. There's at least two guys, probably four total, with one outside—"

"What makes you think we are being robbed?"

"I saw two men downstairs. Once was communicating with an earpiece, the other was keeping time. I don't know what they're after, but they're clearly here for something."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. Our security is top of the line here. There's no way anyone could steal anything."

Neal stared. "Are you not even going to look at your security feeds? I know what I saw, and I'm saying—"

"Sir—"

"Daniel Thomas."

"Monsieur Thomas, there is nothing to be worried about. Now, I'm going to have to kindly ask you to leave the museum."

Neal nodded, annoyed. He realized he probably would have been investigated for the claims he was making, but it was probably the wheelchair that made the head of security refrain from taking that action. He wheeled himself out of the office and felt the man trailing behind him. They entered the elevator and rode it back to the main floor. As they exited, a man in a security uniform ran up to the head of security.

"Sir! There's something wrong in east wing. The guards aren't responding to their radios."

Just then, a wailing siren filled the room and all the visitors flinched and covered their ears. The head of the security grabbed his radio. "Seal the doors! No one gets in or out. I need extra guards dispatched to the east wing. Now!" He turned to the guard in front of him. "You stay with this man, Monsieur Thomas. Escort him up to my office and wait there with him."

The man nodded, confused, but led Neal back into the elevator. They went up a floor, but passed the empty office Neal had been in before. The guard opened another door with a key, and Neal saw a different office. The guard stood next to him, and they waited in silence.

Neal supposed there was organized chaos in the rest of the museum, but it was oddly quiet in the office. There were no other guards in there, probably because they were answering the call of the head of security.

It was forty-five long minutes before the head of security entered his own office. "We caught them. It was two guys in the museum, one just outside, and the police caught a driver fleeing from the scene, suspected to be with them. They were going after one of the Manet's. We caught them in time, but there was damage done to the painting first, we'll need to have it restored." He turned his attention from the guard to Neal. "Tell me everything. How did you know there was going to be a robbery?"

Neal was bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, which was finally catching up to him, but he launched into the explanation of how he saw one man talking to nobody and figuring he had an earpiece, and the other checking his watch without looking around at the paintings.

"How do you know about this? Who are you?"

Neal was immensely glad he put 'internship at the FBI' in Daniel Thomas's background, and he explained how he learned to spot anything mysterious there. It was a stretch, but the head of security seemed to by it.

"Why were you here in the first place, Monsieur Thomas?" The man was a lot more pleasant once he'd learned that Neal had been involved with law enforcement, but he still wanted to know all the facts. His museum was just robbed, as unsuccessful as it was.

"I came to find inspiration to paint," Neal said, and showed him his bag of art supplies.

"Do you mind if we take a look inside your bag?" the man said.

Neal offered it to him, surprised no one had asked sooner. They examined the contents and handed it back to him.

"You seem to be quite a painter, too."

"I did two years of art school before I had to drop out," Neal explained. "I was pushed into a more 'formal' schooling, where I became interested in the defense of the works I had previously admired." Neal was glad he and Mozzie had spent so much time coming up with his new identity. It had been something to distract him in rehab, and so he wanted to create something that covered what he could already do. Seeing how what he could do was such a diverse mix, it was fun to create an identity that could reasonably cover all of it.

The head of security stuck out his hand, and Neal shook it. "I'm Lucas Henry. I apologize for all of this."

"I understand," Neal said. "It's part of the process."

"Yes I suppose you do," Henry said. "You're American?"

Neal nodded. "Graduated from university there planning to go into law enforcement, hopefully with the FBI. Unfortunately, that didn't work out." He placed his hands on the wheels of his chair with an emphasis that he knew would end the questioning. No one wanted to know the details behind how he ended up paralyzed. It was almost too easy to play the pity card in order to stop Henry from digging into his story.

Henry turned and dismissed the guard, and turned back to Neal. "The case has been turned over to the police, there's nothing more we can do. I don't know if you would consider this, but I'd appreciate it if you could help us improve our security here. You clearly saw something the rest of us missed. Perhaps you could consult, on a semi-regular basis?"

Neal nearly laughed, remembering the conversation he had with June the night before. "Thank you, Monsieur Henry. I'll have to think about it."

"Of course, Monsieur. Au revoir."

Neal left the Louvre with a smile on his face. Things were looking up after all.


	17. Chapter 17

Every morning, Peter had a routine of logging in at his computer and pulling up the secure international website, run by Interpol, that listed all the big heists and crimes in cooperating countries. Peter would scan the list, looking for anything that seemed like it could be Neal's handiwork. A few times there were museum robberies that seemed like they would attract Neal, where a painting or other piece of artwork was stolen, but each time the small description next to the case would rule out any possibility of Neal being involved. Sometimes the suspect was a female caught on camera, or a security guard was killed in the process, but whatever it was it clearly wasn't Neal's work.

The whole process reminded Peter a little bit of how he used to come in every morning and check Neal's tracking data.

Not long after the discovery of Keller's body and the treasure, Peter came in in the morning to scan down the list. There was a robbery at the Egyptian museum in Cairo which looked promising, especially because a piece of art was stolen and there were no suspects or theories of how it could have been taken. But for the same reason, it was also impossible to tell if Neal was involved. Peter also saw a botched robbery at the Louvre, but also dismissed that. For one, Neal's name wasn't on the list of convictions, and there was also the fact that he wouldn't have gotten caught so easily.

Peter closed the site on his computer and turned to his real work. There were mortgage fraud cases to be solved.


	18. Chapter 18

Mozzie came back to a completely different Neal. When he knocked on the door and there was no answer, he simply let himself in. "Neal?" he called.

"I'm in here," Neal called back, and Mozzie followed the voice back through the bedroom and into the studio. Neal was wearing a white tank top, and had paint smeared on his hands and shirt. His hair was rather disheveled, and he didn't even look up when Mozzie entered.

"Hey Moz," he said, still focused on the precise brushwork the was doing.

"Mon frére," Mozzie said. "You look… good."

Neal eyed the painting thoughtfully and put his brush down, finally turning to face Mozzie. "And you look burned."

"There was an unfortunate incident involving an angry Egyptian and some misplaced produce. I'll heal."

"Can't wait to hear about it," Neal said with a grin. He grabbed a towel and wiped off his hands, before leading Mozzie out of the studio room and into the living room. Mozzie turned and saw that a large table had been put in the open room, and one of the walls had four canvases lined up next to each other that together depicted the New York City skyline.

"So what have you been up to?" Mozzie asked, still eyeing the paintings.

"Got a job," Neal said elusively.

"Doing…" Moz prompted him.

"Um, security."

"Where?"

Neal almost didn't want to tell him, but he couldn't lie to Mozzie. Not after everything he'd done for him. "The Louvre."

"You—what?"

"I do security consulting for the Louvre. It's basically a part-time job, but it pays well, and leaves me lots of time to paint."

"You're tightening security at the Louvre?"

"Also, a new friend of mine saw my paintings and introduced me to a gallery owner. She's interested in selling them, so I'm working on a collection for that right now."

"You're helping the government catch thieves who go after the Louvre?"

"Oh, and I met a girl. Her name's Michele, she saw me painting once and we really hit it off."

"You're keeping artwork of the masters on the walls of a stuffy museum instead of letting it travel the world again?"

"Don't you think that's a little bit of a stretch, Moz?" Neal smiled, handing Mozzie a glass of wine.

Mozzie grumbled. "A gallery, huh? Well, that's a big step. Creating your own work, too. Congrats."

"Thanks, Moz. You can come by tomorrow if you want, take a look at them."

Mozzie nodded a took a big swig of wine.

"So, tell me about Egypt."

For a second they could be back in New York, telling stories over wine and simply enjoying each other's company. Mozzie told Neal all about his escapades in Egypt, and Neal described some of the paintings in the Louvre that he could now see up close and privately if he wanted. He told Mozzie that the best part of the job was that they let him have hours at a time in front of the art, which he used as terrific inspiration for his own pieces.

It was dark out when Mozzie noticed the fedora sitting on the table by the front door. The lights outside hit the house just right to illuminate it and draw it to Mozzie's attention.

"Gone hat shopping lately?" Mozzie asked.

"No, actually," Neal said. "I got in touch with June and a few days later she sent me a box of Byron's old clothes. There was a note that said she wouldn't want to see them on anyone else, and didn't want them to go to waste."

"Wow. That's nice," Mozzie said. "You two are still communicating?"

"Not too often," Neal said. "She has to call me, because I don't want to risk calling her when she's in the wrong company, and I've been busy. Regardless, it isn't smart to talk to her too often."

"Of course," Mozzie nodded.

Neal smiled widely and Mozzie could tell something was coming that he would normally want to hide—something brought on by too much wine, and perhaps, not enough recent practice in deception. "I'm good, Mozzie," he said. "I didn't think I would be, I didn't think I _could_ be, but I am. I'm happy, despite the paralysis. I still think of New York, though. I still think of Peter. I still think of what my life would've been like if Keller hadn't come after Elizabeth, or even if he had hit me two inches to the left. Do you think they think of me, Moz? Peter, and all them? Do they remember Neal Caffrey?"

"You're pretty unforgettable, Neal," Mozzie said. "I think it's a safe bet that the Suit thinks about you every once in a while."

"Yeah," Neal said, his voice a little too wistful for Mozzie's liking. "Yeah."


	19. Chapter 19

Neal woke slowly, relishing the feeling of being warm and cocooned in bed. There was only a few minutes before his alarm would've gone off, and he leaned over to turn it off. Then he flipped back onto his back and put one arm around Michele, who was just starting to stir.

"Bonjour, ma chérie," he whispered in her ear, planting a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Mm," she rolled into him, nestling in his outstretched arm, "is it morning already?"

"Yeah, I have to go."

"You're working at the museum today?"

"Just a half day. I'll meet you at the bakery after," he said, referring to the bakery she owned and ran. It wasn't far from the gallery, and he was planning to stop by later anyway.

Neal rolled over so he was on the edge of the bed, and pulled his chair towards him. He transferred into the chair, and rolled his way into the bathroom to get read for the day.

A half an hour later, Michele kissed him goodbye as she walked out the door. Neal was just finishing getting ready.

It was five months since he first met Michele that day in the Louvre, the same day he got the job working for their security team. For a month they grew closer, getting to know each other platonically. Michele was the first one who initiated a romantic relationship—she had fallen for him as she watched him paint, seeing the way his eyes came alive with light. Neal wanted what Michele wanted, but he was very hesitant to start a relationship. He didn't know what the chair would prevent him from doing in terms of dating, and he wasn't too eager to find out. There was also the fact that he really liked Michele, and he wasn't sure he wanted to start a relationship and be forced to lie about his past. He had seen first hand how lying could bring strong relationships to quick ends.

They had taken it very slowly, and it only had been a few weeks since Michele started staying over at his house. For accessibility reasons, they were always at Neal's—she lived in a second floor apartment without an elevator. But Neal liked it that way. He was happy.

Before he left the house, he left a quick message for Mozzie. Mozzie didn't like to spend that much time at the house anymore, not since Michele was over so much, but he dropped by occasionally. He let Neal know months earlier that he approved of her, which Neal appreciated even if he wasn't looking for approval in the first place.

Neal locked the door behind him and made his way to the museum. It was an unseasonably warm day for the time of the year, so he decided he'd forego the bus he usually took. His job at the museum was officially as a consultant, because he didn't actually do any part of securing the museum itself, which had the benefits of being part-time and paying more money. Most of Neal's source of income was coming, surprisingly, from painting. The owner of the gallery near where Michele worked recently redesigned the makeup of the gallery to prominently feature Neal's work on the entire first floor. He had developed his own style by borrowing from the masters that he studied in the Louvre, and his subject was usually a hybrid of Paris and New York City. The gallery owner loved his work, and it seemed the public did, too. He'd never thought people would like his original art, but it seemed he was wrong.

One of the requirements for him before he agreed to have his work displayed in the gallery was that he wanted to be anonymous. It wasn't that he didn't want people to know the artwork was his—he would tell anyone who asked—it was more because he didn't feel comfortable painting under one name, when he'd had so many. The pieces he was making were as much Neal Caffrey's as they were Daniel Thomas's, and he didn't want to assign one name to them.

His time at the museum that day was short—he looked over security feeds to make sure everything was positioned so that nothing would be out of their line of sight. As they changed camera views often now, a recommendation from Neal so thieves could not have camera blindspots memorized, Neal found himself critiquing the exact positioning of the cameras on a nearly weekly basis.

Checking his watch, Neal realized he had time to stop in at the gallery before visiting Michele at he bakery. He passed her shop before entering the gallery, hearing the calming jingle of the door as it opened.

"Monsieur Thomas! Just the man I wanted to see." The gallery owner came over to shake Neal's hand.

"Ah, is that so?" Neal asked.

"Oh yes," he said. "I have some wonderful news. As your pieces display New York as prominently as they do Paris, and they are gathering much attention, I got a call from a gallery in New York City. The owner there said she'd love to host an exhibition, if only a temporary one, to display and sell your pieces on the other side of the ocean."

"Wow." Neal was stunned—he didn't know his art was so well known. "That's—wow."

The gallery owner smiled at him. "You're invited to go to. And a guest. She was insistent that she take care of all the accommodations, anything and everything that will make you feel comfortable visiting New York City."

Neal shook his head, although there was still a smile on his face. "I'm honored. Please tell her that I'd be grateful for her to host an exhibition, but I have to think about attending. Can I get back to you?"

The gallery owner bowed his head. "Of course, Monsieur, just know she is very excited. She's planning a party in your honor."

"I'll come by tomorrow, talk about what pieces to send over?" Neal asked, and the gallery owner nodded. "Good day then, I must go. Thank you, again."

"No, thank you, Monsieur Thomas."

Neal exited the gallery, making his way over to the bakery. Before going inside, he stopped, running his hands through his hair. When he agreed to show his art, he never thought of it going as far as it had. As thrilled as he was, he couldn't help but be overwhelmed with the scale it had grown. He was being invited to New York City, of all places. Of course, the one place he could never again go. He wished he could—he looked at photographs and read books about the city as much as he could, but painting from memory was never as good as looking at the subject he was trying to capture.

Neal pushed his thoughts aside as he went into the bakery. He could never go back to New York—he'd made the decision and he cut the ties. There was no use thinking about it. He smiled at Michele as she came to kiss him lightly on the cheek, and listened to her story about a client who wanted a most peculiar cake while they ate croissants. Before he knew it, she had to get back to working. He promised her he'd be in charge of dinner that night, and he left the bakery.

Neal wasn't expecting to go digging into the drawer in the back of his closet when he got home, but it just happened. He pulled out his phone—or rather, Neal Caffrey's phone—and ran his thumb over the screen. He hit a button with his finger and the phone lit up in front of his eyes, still proclaiming one unheard voice message. Neal wasn't sure why, but he clicked it and put his phone up to his ear.

Peter's voice spoke through the small speaker: "Neal, I don't know if this message is even worth leaving, because you might be kidnapped by Keller… or worse. But on the off chance that you're listening, give me a call, please. I'm worried. Whatever happened with the treasure, whatever your part in it was, you helped get Elizabeth back. And I'm extremely thankful for that. I know you're probably staring prison straight in the face, but I'll do what I can. You've been a great partner to me these past couple years, despite our ups and downs. And I couldn't forgive myself if Keller hurts you because of all of this." Peter sighed and Neal could hear his breath through the phone. "I'm basically talking to myself right now. Anyway, Neal, if at any time you hear this, just know that… I don't regret it all. Parts, for sure," here Peter laughed timidly, "but you were worth it. God, Neal, if you're really gone…" The message ended.

Neal lowered the phone from his ear and stared at it. A whirlwind of emotions were coursing through his mind, and he didn't know how to deal with them. But most of all, he felt a strong desire to see Peter again, to go back to New York and risk everything so he could see his friend.

Neal put the phone back into the drawer at the back of his closet, and the spell was broken. Who was he kidding? Going back wouldn't just mean prison; it would mean leaving Michele, leaving the life he'd built for himself, and admitting Neal Caffrey was broken. His hands on his wheels, the constant reminder of what his life had become, Neal wheeled his way out of the closet. He went into the bathroom, where he splashed some water on his face and ran his hands through his hair. Peter's voicemail couldn't get him to abandon the life he'd built in France, but it did convince him of one thing—he needed to tell Michele about his past. He wasn't going to ruin another relationship by keeping secrets.


	20. Chapter 20

Instead of painting, like he'd planned, Neal spent the afternoon making homemade pasta. By the time Michele got home, the house smelled of Italy.

"Wow, Daniel, this smells amazing." She put her bag down and walked into the house, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors. He put the wine down on the counter so he could give her a kiss, and she grabbed the glasses to bring to the table for him. "Is there an occasion?" She asked, after washing her hands and sitting down at the table. He pulled into the spot across from her and locked his chair, before reaching over the table to grab her hands.

"Actually, yes," he said. "I'll tell you all about everything after dinner. First, tell me what you did for that client of yours with the cake!"

They laughed and ate, Michele saying she would never cook again if this was what he was capable of, and Neal taking in her beautiful face and smile that he wasn't sure he'd ever see again after he started talking. Dinner was over too soon, and Michele cleared the dishes and poured them each another glass of wine. There was no delaying it any longer.

Neal jumped right in: "The owner of the gallery that my work is being shown at said there's a gallery in New York City that wants to do an exhibition. They want to fly me—and you, too—out to New York to see it."

"Daniel, that's amazing!" Michele exclaimed, her dark eyes lighting up with the news. "Congratulations! And might I say, I've always wanted to see New York, especially after you paint it with so much passion."

Neal smiled sadly. "Michele, I can't go."

Neal watched Michele's face as elation turned into confusion. "Why?"

"There's a lot about me that you don't know, and I think it's time I tell you. Before I do, I want you to know that I have loved every minute I've spent with you. You made my transition to France, my transition to this chair, so easy and I am so grateful for that."

"Daniel, you're scaring me."

"I think I'm falling in love with you, Michele Rousseau, but I understand completely if you decide this has to end."

"Daniel, tell me what you're talking about!"

"First of all, my name isn't Daniel Thomas."

Michele leaned forward slightly and crossed her hands on the table. Her brow furrowed but she kept her mouth closed, and Neal could tell she was giving him a chance to tell his story.

"It's Neal Caffrey," he said. "I was a conman, before. Living the high life, moving from place to place, I thought my life couldn't be any better." He told her about Kate, and then prison, and then breaking out of prison for Kate. He told her about Peter, the chances he was given, and the way he created a solid friendship with the man who put him in jail in the first place. He even told her about Keller and the treasure, and the danger he put Elizabeth in. It was dark out by that time, both wine glasses were drained, and Neal's throat was dry. "He and I fought, and after he knocked me out, he ended up hitting me squarely in the spine. When I woke up I was in the hospital, and Mozzie was offering me another way out. I was paralyzed, I was scared, and I didn't think I could ever be Neal Caffrey in a wheelchair. So I asked him for a new identity, and he found a rehab place in France. I was there for a month and a half, and not long after I was released, I met you."

There was silence in the house for a minute and Neal wished she'd say something, anything at all. She just stared at him, and Neal had to do all he could not to fidget under the intensity of her eyes.

"Neal Caffrey," she said finally, as if trying the name out on her lips.

Neal nodded. "That's me." He'd meant to say it jokingly, but it came out flat.

"It was Mozzie who stole the treasure?" she asked.

"Yes," Neal said, not sure why she had chosen that to talk about, but going with it all the same.

"But you didn't run when he showed it to you."

"No. I had a life that I enjoyed, I didn't want to throw it all away."

"So why did you run later?" she asked. "Why come here, not stay in New York?"

Neal gave a hollow laugh. "My life there was over. Lying in that hospital bed, knowing I would never be able to walk again, it was clear to me that Neal Caffrey was as good as dead. If I wanted survive, to be successful with only the power of my upper body, I would have to create a new identity."

She stared at him some more. "I think you're wrong," she said finally. "I might not know much about you, but I know who you are. I've seen your eyes light up when you paint, I've seen you avoid the prying eye contact of some but relish it from others, I've seen you around Mozzie and I see the undying devotion you two have for each other, the trust that you would do anything for each other. I've heard you talk about what you did, the sacrifices you made for Kate, and Peter, and Elizabeth, and I'm sure many more. And now I've heard you spill your secrets to me, because you don't want to love someone who doesn't know your past. Whatever name you call yourself—Neal Caffrey, Daniel Thomas, or any other passport Mozzie has with your face on it—you're still the same person. You're caring, and courageous, and talented. You're wrong; you didn't need to change your name to survive. The strength to survive is in you, it always has been."

Neal wasn't sure what to say to that.

"I'm falling in love with you too, Daniel," Michele admitted. "And if that means I'm falling in love with Neal as well, I'm okay with that. I understand why you felt you needed to hide this from me, and I am thankful that you told me before—before anything else could happen."

"Does that mean… we're okay?" Neal asked, hesitantly. It was more, much more than he had hoped for.

"I'm going to need some time to process this," Michele said. "And I can't be around you while I do, I need to clear my head and think about what I can expect from you in the future, if this relationship can work." She got up and started towards the door.

Neal bent over and hurriedly unlocked his wheels, before following her as fast as he could, cursing the wheelchair for its difficulties. As it was, he only reached her when she had one foot out the door. He grabbed her hand, stopping her.

"I'll be waiting for you," he said. "For as long as it takes. If I'm waiting forever, so be it. But I want to tell you this, before you go. I was not forthcoming with my past, but I never lied to you about my present. I was Neal Caffrey, but now I'm Daniel Thomas—no longer a conman, but a security consultant for the Louvre and an artist. This is who I am now. I never conned you, Michele."

She looked back at him, squeezing his hand softly. There were tears in her eyes. "I know," she whispered. Then she let go of his hand and walked out of the house, closing the door behind her.


	21. Chapter 21

Peter was enjoying his food, and thinking about the latest case he had yet to crack. The money was clearly the key, but without a warrant they couldn't check the suspects bank statements, and so far they had no evidence that would get them a warrant.

"Honey?" Elizabeth's voice floated through his ears and he was pulled back to the situation in front of him.

"Sorry, El. What did you say?"

She laughed lightly. This was an old routine for them. "The gallery called, they're planning for a party. Apparently there's a great new artist in France who paints landscapes combining Paris and New York City. They're going to do an exhibition for him, and they want me to cater."

"That's great!" Peter said, smiling genuinely. "Who's the artist?"

"He's anonymous," Elizabeth said, "never signs his paintings. But the gallery owner said he'll be there, and he has no problem being introduced to people as the artist. He just doesn't like to sign his work."

Peter laughed. "Reminds me of Neal, only he'd sign other people's names. When is it?"

"The gallery doesn't know yet—they got the shipment of paintings from the gallery in France, but they're waiting to make contact with the artist before assigning a date to the party, and opening the exhibition. The meeting I had with them was just a preliminary one, trying to assess what they would want for the party."

Peter nodded, turning his attention back to his food. He wasn't quite sure what to say about the subject.

Elizabeth reached over and held his hand, and he looked up at her. "I have permission to go in early and see the artwork before the exhibition opens officially. Do you want to come with me?" Elizabeth saw Peter hesitate, and she added, "You can check out the security measures, if you want."

Peter smiled. "I would love to come with you, hon."

They kissed, smiles on each of their faces.

Two days later Peter found himself in a tie he definitely did not put on voluntarily, standing beside his wife at a gallery he had never been in before. He tugged at his collar uncomfortably, and Elizabeth held his hand and walked him forward. The gallery owner herself was on Elizabeth's other side, and they were chatting amiably about both the party and the new pieces.

When he saw the artwork, even Peter had to be impressed. The first one was a huge canvas, and it was painted with the New York City skyline and the Paris skyline. But the were blended so perfectly that if he didn't know he was looking at two different cities, he would've thought it was one skyline. The colors were bold and the buildings were painted with a touch Peter couldn't describe, but it made the whole scene look almost magical and alive.

The rest were equally stunning. There was one that somehow combined the Chrysler Building and the Eiffel Tower to create a new, interesting building but with the unmistakable touches of both cities. This canvas was very tall and surprisingly skinny, so the effect was that the building seemed to be bearing down on the viewer. Peter found it peculiar that the artist chose to combine the Eiffel Tower with the Chrysler Building, as the Empire State Building was so much more prominent in New York.

They spent a few hours at the gallery, admiring the work and engaging in discussion about the talent of the artist. Peter tried to stay out of the conversation as much as possible, but he smiled whenever he saw Elizabeth's excitement at expressing the beauty of the paintings in her own words.

Peter and Elizabeth went home happy, each with an invitation to meet the artist once he set a date to come visit the gallery. Elizabeth was thrilled and couldn't wait, while Peter just hoped he could get out of spending another night pretending he knew something about art. He couldn't help thinking that it would be something Neal would love—both the art and the mystery behind the anonymous artist. Peter supposed the mystery could appeal to him too, and he decided he'd go to the party not only for El's sake but also to meet the artist. He might not know anything about art, but he knew those paintings were special.


	22. Chapter 22

Neal agreed to have the gallery in Paris send his artwork to the gallery in New York, but he stayed vague about the opportunity to go over to New York himself. Instead of outright declining, he just said he had some personal issues he had to sort out before he could commit to such a big trip. Not a lie. Just one of Neal Caffrey's half-truths.

Nearly a week after Michele walked out of his house, Neal still hadn't heard from her. He had been going by the bakery, but he resisted going inside. He understood Michele needed time, and he was honest when he said he'd give her as much time as she needed.

Neal was eating dinner with Mozzie (well, Neal was eating, and Mozzie was drinking his wine) when there was a knock on the door. Mozzie got up to get it.

"Hello, Mozzie."

Neal was moving towards the door as soon as he heard the voice.

"Michele."

Mozzie cleared his throat quite loudly, standing in between them. "I think I have some paintings to, ah, authenticate," he said, and made his way back to Neal's studio. Neal tried not to think about what he would do back there unsupervised, and instead turned his attention to Michele.

"Can I come in?" Michele asked, with the same innocent trusting look Neal noticed about her the first time he saw her in the museum.

"Of course, yeah." Neal moved aside and she came in, closing the door behind her.

She stared for a moment at the four canvases that adorned the wall, showing the view out of Neal's old apartment, before she spoke. "I thought a lot over this past week. About you, and about me." She turned away from the paintings to face him. "I like you, Daniel Thomas, and I believe you're a good man. I would like to continue to have a relationship with you."

Neal's smile stretched his whole face, and he intertwined his fingers with hers. "I would like that too."

"But I need to know that I'll have your honesty from this point forward. Mozzie still lives a life of thieving, correct?"

"Yes," Neal acknowledged.

"I can't ask you to separate yourself from him—I understand your ties more closely resemble brothers than they do friends. But I need to know that you won't get involved in any of his dealings."

"Never," Neal promised.

"And if anything ever happens, any unforeseeable circumstances, you have to tell me about it. This relationship will be built on honesty."

"I would want nothing less," Neal said.

She dropped the formal tone, squeezed his hand, and bent down so she was kneeling next to him. "You're a hard man to try to let go of," she whispered. She leaned in and they shared a kiss, only breaking apart when Mozzie walked back in the room.

"Get a room!" he said.

"Sorry, Moz, but you weren't supposed to be here," Neal said with a smile.

"I can tell I am not wanted, so I will leave," he said, making his way towards the door. "Michele," he nodded at her as he passed, and Neal knew he was approving of her for Neal's sake.

Before closing the door behind him, Mozzie called out, "You'll tell the gallery owner tomorrow?"

"Yeah Moz. I'll talk to you then."

He walked out of the house and shut the door behind him.

"Tell the gallery owner what?" Michele asked.

"That I can't go to New York," Neal said.

"About that…" Michele started, as she made herself comfortable on the couch. "I think you should go."

Neal finished transferring from the chair onto the couch so he could be next to her before answering. "Michele, you realize I can never go back to New York, right?"

"Why not?" she asked. "You have a new identity, and you're being invited by the gallery. No one would know that Neal Caffrey is the man behind the artwork."

"If it were another state, I would consider it," Neal said. "But I can't go to New York. The odds are just too high that someone will recognize me. And if they do, Michele, you realize that would mean I'd go to prison, probably for the rest of my life."

She brushed a stray hair away from his face. "I understand. And I wouldn't want you to risk everything. I just know how amazing it would be for you to see New York City again, and to see your friends."

Neal couldn't answer that. It was true, he would give nearly anything to see Peter again, especially after the message he'd heard. And June… phone calls once a month weren't enough. He missed everything about New York, most of all the able body he left behind there, but one thing he wouldn't give up just to see it all again was his freedom.


	23. Chapter 23

Neal told the gallery owner that he wouldn't be able to travel out to New York, and the gallery owner was disappointed but understanding. He said he'd pass the message along.

Before Neal stopped by the bakery, as he'd planned to do, he called Mozzie.

"Mon frére, how are things in the land of croissants and women?"

"Fine, Moz," Neal said. "I have a question for you, although I know what the answer is going to be."

"'A wise man can learn more from a foolish question than a fool can learn from a wise answer.' Bruce Lee."

Neal chuckled. "Okay, here goes. Is there any chance I could go back to New York? You know, without ending up in prison?"

"No."

"None at all? Are you saying you and me together can't make the necessary preparations to be able to go through New York City freely?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. It's suicide, Neal. As much as I find the government a useless entity incapable of protecting the people from the real dangers of the world, you have to give the Suit a little bit of credit. You think no one will look at the man going down the street in a wheelchair and realize he's the infamous conman that fled the city not even a year earlier?"

"You're right, Mozzie. Thanks."

"If you really want me to, I'll try to think of a way to make it possible. But if you do go back, you should know you're putting a hell of a lot on the line."

"You're the best, Mozzie. If anyone can figure out how, it's you. Will I see you later?"

"I make no promises." He hung up.

Neal made his way to the bakery, allowing himself just a sliver of hope that he might someday be able to see New York again.


	24. Chapter 24

Neal turned to Michele thoughtfully, during dinner. "You know," he said, "Mozzie wants to kill me."

Michele nearly choked on her food. "He _what?_ "

"Mozzie wants to kill Neal Caffrey. Get him a death certificate, verify his body, the whole deal. He thinks that's the only way I'll ever be able to go back to New York."

"What do you think?" Michele asked. She seemed intrigued.

"I'm considering it," Neal said. "What do you think?"

"I want you to be happy," Michele said, "and I think going to New York, or at least having the possibility of going to New York, will make you happy. But how do you feel about killing Neal?"

He thought about it. He'd faked his death before, but he'd never really intended to put Neal Caffrey to rest. He wondered if he'd feel any different with Neal gone, but he realized he'd said goodbye to Neal back when he learned he'd never walk again. Neal Caffrey had died in his eyes when he decided to go to France. "I think I want to do it. To be honest, I think I've always thought of Neal Caffrey as deceased when I lost my ability to walk. Neal will immortally be able-bodied, I think."

Michele smiled. "So, how are you going to do it?" She sounded excited, up for a thrill.

Neal chuckled. "I'll paint a forgery, and Mozzie will switch it out. Somewhere in Italy, I think, away from here. It'll put 'Neal' back in the game, establish he's out there, and then Mozzie will stage a hit-and-run or something to kill him. Well, _me_."

"And you don't have to do anything? Other than the painting, I mean."

"I can't really, not anymore. Before I would've gone to establish myself in the area, get caught on some cameras or something, but that's not an option any more."

Michele squeezed his hand. She leaned over to kiss him gently on the lips. "I think this is a good thing."

Neal nodded. "Do you want to choose the painting?"

Her face broke into a smile. They spent the rest of the night researching paintings. Michele loved it. Before bed, he sent Mozzie a quick text: _Let's do it._


	25. Chapter 25

Elizabeth was fretting about her business because the gallery had decided to open without having a party after all. There was word that the artist wasn't going to show. But Peter wasn't listening; he had his computer open and was staring at a message that just popped up in his inbox. It was regarding Neal Caffrey. He opened the file and explored what it said.

It was only a briefing, but the contents painted a clear picture. There had been a robbery at a museum in Italy, a priceless painting had been stolen right off its walls. No alarms had been set off, and no one would have been the wiser, if not for a tip off to museum security. They checked the painting that hung on the wall and found it was a forgery. A magnificent forgery, at that. The lead suspect was none other than Neal Caffrey; it had his mark all over it and no one could paint a forgery like he could. Peter wondered how many other museums around the world had Caffreys on their walls. If no one had called in the tip, the Italian museum would have just been another museum that wasn't the wiser about the artwork it owned.

Peter was mad all week: snapping at his coworkers, being distant at dinner with his wife, altogether incredibly irritable. Finally Elizabeth confronted him about it.

"Peter, what's wrong? And don't say nothing, you've been acting strange all week."

"It's Neal," Peter admitted. "He's the lead suspect in a museum heist in Italy."

Elizabeth reached out to hold his hand. She wasn't sure how to respond.

"It's weird," Peter said, breaking a long stretch of silence. "I always knew that was what he was doing, but it just seems different some how to see his name listed as a suspect. Again."

"Are you sure he did it?" Elizabeth asked, but she sounded unsure of herself.

"Yeah," Peter said. "There's no one else who could've pulled it off as well as he did. No one would've ever known if it weren't for a tip that someone called in."

"That does sound like Neal," she said.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked.

Elizabeth considered his question for a second before answering. "I've forgiven him for his role with the treasure, you know that. But I had honestly thought we were teaching him something about living an honest life. I guess I'm a little disappointed to see proof that he's gone back to stealing."

Peter nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another message pop up on his computer, identical to the one last week. Without letting go of Elizabeth's hand, he pulled the laptop closer to him and clicked the message. What he saw shocked him.

It was a death certificate. The name "Neal George Caffrey" stood out in bold letters. Peter's stomach dropped.

"Hon?"

Peter wordlessly turned the computer to face her. She looked at the screen, her face blank for a second, then she gasped and looked away. There were tears forming in her eyes.

Dinner was put away silently, the dishes washed and the table cleaned. Both Burkes retreated up to their room, where they held each other as tried to fall asleep. Neither knew quite how to react to the news. Neal had not been a welcome name in their house since he disappeared, and they weren't sure if they should be mourning his loss. Peter finally fell asleep to strange dreams about Neal, both the friend and the criminal he'd chased, while Elizabeth lay awake with tears running from her eyes.


	26. Chapter 26

Mozzie practically lived at Neal's house from the moment he got back from Italy. Every minute that Neal wasn't at work or painting (and sometimes even when he was painting) they were discussing the risks of going back to New York. Mozzie wanted to delay it as long as possible—let the commotion that they caused with the robbery and then the death die down—while Neal wanted to go right away. He wanted to be there for the gallery opening, and he argued that the risk would be great either way but it would be more likely for someone to uncover the false death after more time had passed.

After one long dinner in which Mozzie, Neal, and Michele all contributed their opinions, it was decided that the trip to New York was worth the risk. Mozzie refused to accompany Neal and Michele, but promised to set everything up to look legitimate. Neal got in contact with June, who graciously offered for him and Michele to stay in his old apartment instead of a hotel.

Neal got in touch with the gallery owner next, and all the preparations were being made for a party when he got there. Apparently the gallery had a small opening already, but paintings were already getting offers.

The last adjustment Neal made before leaving was with the gallery in New York; he decided because it was New York, where he felt most like Neal Caffrey, that he would meet the patrons in a secluded section of the gallery. That way he could make stronger connections with those who admired his work, and he also planned to be sitting in a normal chair for that part. He wanted to be as close to Neal Caffrey as he could, and that meant ditching the wheelchair for at least as long as he met with the strangers who liked his art. He had to admit, it excited him to be going to New York again, but it equally excited him that he would meet new people who wouldn't look at him as disabled. It would be a refreshing experience, to say the least.

Staying under the radar was no longer an option, not when going through an airport in a wheelchair. So Mozzie did the opposite—got first class tickets, special treatment, everything he needed to stand out. No one would second guess his identity.

Before they left for the the airport, Neal took Mozzie aside for a moment.

"Moz, I want to thank you. You got me out of New York when I couldn't stay, and you made it possible to go back when I wanted to."

Mozzie adjusted his glasses before speaking. "It's always my pleasure, mon frére. I just hope I'll see you again."

Neal chuckled. "I'll steer clear of the FBI, don't worry. There's no reason for Peter to go to a gallery, I won't see him."

"And you won't be tempted?" Mozzie asked.

"I'm not Neal Caffrey anymore. I left for a reason, I don't want to know Peter to know why. He doesn't need to know who I am now."

Mozzie nodded. "Good luck, then. You deserve this."

They left it at that, both knowing what they other thought without saying it.

The trip to New York went smoothly. Neal, for one, found the experience far more pleasant than he had on the way to France. This time he was in control of his own actions, and he liked Michele's kisses much more than the impersonal movements of doctors and airport security.

They landed in New York, and per the previous arrangements made, June had a limousine pick them up and take them directly to her mansion.

When Neal saw her, they embraced immediately. Both of their eyes shone a little brighter than before.

"It's so good to see you, Neal," June said.

"You too, June. I didn't think I would ever get to see you again."

"There's always a next time."

Neal smiled. "Mozzie sends his best wishes."

"He should come visit some day. Tell him I have enough wine to satisfy us both."

Neal introduced Michele and June, and they spent the rest of the day reminiscing and enjoying each other's company. When Neal showed Michele where he used to live, taking her up in the small service elevator in the back of the house, she gasped audibly. "Daniel. Wow. This is where you used to live?"

"Fresh out of prison, too. June has been kinder to me than, well, everyone I've ever known. Without her, I don't think I would've lasted too long at the FBI. Probably would've ended back up in prison."

"She's an amazing person," Michele agreed.

"And I'm a lucky guy." He tugged her hand and she knelt down next to him, and they shared a long kiss. "I'm going to sit on the balcony for a bit," Neal decided. He rolled his way over to one of the chairs. "Would you do me a favor?" He quickly transferred to the chair on the deck, and unlocked the brakes on his chair. He pushed it towards her. "Could you put this inside for a minute please?"

Michele stared at him. He had always insisted on being in arm's reach of his chair—it was the only way to give him the independence he so desired. She'd never seen him want to distance himself from the chair. Even when he was frustrated with it, he realized it was his only form of mobility and he kept it close. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Neal said. "I need to be Neal Caffrey for a moment."

She nodded and took the chair, bringing it inside and sitting at the kitchen table. She needed to be close to him, as she knew he'd need it soon. But at the moment, he just seemed to be staring off into the beautiful skyline around him.

Michele turned her attention to the view. It was marvelous, truly one of the most gorgeous sights she'd ever seen. She recognized it from his painting at home—it was exactly like the four canvas spread he'd hung in the living room. The skyline mesmerized her for a moment, before she noticed his shoulders shaking quietly. She turned her attention to the man in the chair—the one she knew as Daniel, but who clearly felt more connected to Neal in New York—and saw that he was crying. She wasn't sure what to do. She'd never seen him cry before, not even when he fell out of his chair once when he was painting. It was a vulnerability he'd never before shown, and one she wasn't sure she should be seeing.

But that didn't stop the fact that it was happening in front of her eyes. It seemed, back in New York City, Daniel was reminded of everything he'd lost as Neal. Michele felt an intense wave of guilt; she pushed him into coming back in the first place, and she hated seeing him in so much pain. She heard a choked sob and she had to do everything she could not to run to him. But this was his moment, and she recognized this was something he had to do alone.

As Michele watched, his shoulders stopped shaking, the sounds of crying went away, and he wiped his hands over his face and through his hair. He gazed out at the skyline again, as if drinking it in, before turning his upper body around. Michele saw him wave her over, and she brought the chair with her to join him. He transferred in a smooth motion, and led her inside to the kitchen. The only sign of the man who had broken down a minute earlier was slightly red-rimmed eyes, which he dismissed with a wide smile.


	27. Chapter 27

Elizabeth was buzzing around the house like a woman possessed, trying to get everything in order for the gallery opening. It turned out the artist was coming after all, and she was in a hurry to complete all the necessary requirements for the party, in addition to his special request. She found it odd that he wanted to meet with everyone individually and apart from the other guests, but she asked no questions and instead set up the curtain that would bridge off one area of the gallery. As a party planner she was nervous, but as a fan of the artist's work she was very excited. She had every intention of joining the line to meet the artist once she verified that everything was under control.

Peter did his best to support his wife, even though he wasn't really sure what she needed him to do. But he could tell this was very important to her, and for that reason, he made sure his best suit was clean and hanging in his closet. He also decided that he would sneak in line and talk to the artist before she would have a chance to, so that maybe he could convince this mysterious artist to sign something for her, or at least recognize her and thank her for the effort she was putting in to the party.

The day of the party arrived quickly, and Peter actually left work a little early in order to ensure he'd get there on time. Elizabeth was already there, and had been since the early afternoon, but after a quick word with the gallery owner Peter confirmed that no one other than the gallery owner herself had met the artist yet. People were just starting to trickle in, and Peter slipped in the growing line to meet the artist, ducking behind someone to avoid being seen by Elizabeth, who was directing the caterer. He wanted all of this to be a surprise for her, so he didn't want her to see him in line.

She disappeared in the back, and Peter settled down in line. All he had to do now was meet the ever-elusive artist.


	28. Chapter 28

Neal's frustration about not being able to go out in New York City was tempered by his excitement of the gallery party that night. Michele could feel his energy, and June looked at him with immense pride at the fact that he was finally getting recognition for his own original work. He deserved it.

She arranged for a driver to take Neal and Michele to the gallery, and promised she'd meet them later. They exchanged hugs, and Neal left for the gallery. When they arrived, they were greeted by the gallery owner. She apologized for the lack of a better welcome—everyone from the party planner to florist was in the back, bringing everything inside and trying to make the party perfect—and she lead the two of them to the back of the gallery. Neal glanced at the paintings around him as he made his way to the back. He'd been in the gallery before, back before prison when he was actually considering stealing from it, and it was surreal to see his own paintings lining the walls. The gallery owner showed Neal and Michele the curtained off area, and true to Neal's request, no one wold be able to see him unless invited inside. Inside the area it was spacious and well lit, and Neal found he liked the set up quite a lot. He'd have to thank the party planner—it was clear there was an experienced hand pulling the strings.

Neal thanked the gallery owner for all she had done to make this happen, and told her he'd like to get situated in his area. Michele would be staying by his side the entire time. The gallery owner told him that patrons would be arriving in as little as twenty minutes. She shook his hand, thanked him for his work, and then it was just Neal and Michele in the small curtained-off room.

Neal transferred from his wheelchair to a wooden chair behind the table that was set up in the space, and Michele moved his wheelchair to a corner, tucking it between the folds of the curtain and the wall. It would be easily accessible, but out of sight.

Michele took in Neal's broad smile, and sat next to him, rubbing her fingers over his hand. "Do you mind if I ask…" she said hesitantly, "is this how Neal Caffrey would do it?"

Neal laughed. "Not at all. First of all, Neal never painted his own work. He was a forger, not an original artist."

It didn't escape Michele's notice that he used both the third person and the past tense to describe the man he used to be. "But say he did, and there was a gallery showing in his honor."

"Okay, say there was. Neal would not be curtained off from the crowd, ever. He'd want to mingle, find out what people thought of his work first. Then he'd probably get everyone's attention, and make a speech that mentions that he's the artist. It would be nearing the end of the evening, and all the attention would turn from his paintings to the man himself. He was always a sucker for attention, and it got him into trouble a lot."

Michele giggled and kissed his cheek. "I like Daniel's method better. The intrigue and secrecy adds to the effect of the paintings. They'll be dying to meet you, and once they leave, they'll feel they need to have an original 'Anonymous' in their homes."

The gallery owner stepped into their area. "There's already a line to meet you. Are you ready?"

Neal nodded. "Send them in."

The first people to come in were an older couple, their eyes bright and smiles wide.

Michele reached out her hand. "My name is Michele," she said, her French accent sounding stronger than ever, "and this is the talented artist himself."

Neal stuck out his hand as well, and shook the hands of the couple in turn. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

The couple stayed for five minutes and they spoke. They complemented his art, and Neal in turn complemented their taste, and when they left there were big smiles on all of their faces.

Michele looked at Neal before the next patron came in. His eyes had closed for a minute and he had the sweetest look on his face. It was clear he was drinking in the moment. She kissed him squarely on the lips, and he kissed back without opening his eyes. When they broke away, he whispered, "Perfect."

When he was ready, Michele stood to get the next guest. She came back inside with a young girl beside her. "And his is the artist himself," Michele said, gesturing to Neal.

Neal smiled and shook her hand. She was an art student, and had many questions about the technique Neal had used when he painted. Neal's eyes came alive as he talked with the girl about different painting styles, and he told her he'd be more than happy to see her work at some time. He took out a business card from the inside pocket of his jacket, which said 'Anonymous' in bold, black print—they were a gift from Michele earlier that day—and scribbled his number on the back. When the girl left, her face was red and she looked like she was about to cry from happiness.

Twenty minutes passed in similar fashion. Everyone who met Neal gushed about his art, and a few repeatedly asked to know his name. He smiled and answered questions and deflected in only the way a conman can, and it seemed everyone left craving to have one of his paintings hanging above their mantle.

After a young couple left, Michele walked out to get the next guest. Neal heard the introduction through the curtain, and he waited patiently for the new guest to enter. He was never expecting who he saw.

"Neal?"

Michele shot Neal a frightened look, standing against the wall instead of sitting down, the hidden wheelchair pressed against her back. She had no idea who she had let in.

"Peter Burke." Neal adjusted to his shock quickly, and found anger surging through him. He was having the perfect night, and of course Peter had to come around and ruin that. "Why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same thing. You're supposed to be dead!"

"So what," Neal asked, "you're here to arrest me?"

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't," Peter snarled back.

"Neal Caffrey is dead! He almost a year ago, death certificate of not."

"That's funny," Peter said, his eyes staring daggers, "because I bet if I ran your prints, it would show me Neal Caffrey is quite alive and right in front of me."

"I'm not Neal anymore." His voice was low, and in his rage Peter missed the hurt under his words. "I will never be Neal Caffrey again."

"I'm afraid I can't take your word for that," Peter said. He laughed, but there was no humor to it. "Frankly, I should've known. Not signing the paintings, being all mysterious and anonymous, it had your name all over it. It's not like you haven't faked your death before, too. And to think I was once worried about you. All this time you've just been going from museum to museum, stealing what you want. But that's not enough—now you need the fame, too."

"What part of this is making me famous?" Neal shot back. "I'm curtained off from the rest of the guests. I'm anonymous. No one knows who I am!"

"I guess that's one thing you've learned from Mozzie," Peter said, spitting out the name like he had when he found out who had stolen the treasure. "Arrogance will always catch up with you. The only reason you're not grabbing all the credit for this is so that tomorrow you can jet off to your island without anyone chasing you. Only that plan didn't work out too well, did it?"

"I don't have an island," Neal said. "I have a house. It's my home, it's where I live. I haven't been outside of that country at all before coming here. I have an honest life, I paint for a living and I help improve museum security on the side."

"A perfect way to surveil your next crime."

"No! Peter, I have been on the right side of the law for the past year, and I will never go back. Because _I'm not Neal Caffrey anymore._ "

Peter's expression didn't change. "I came here to ask you to do something nice for the party planner, who's been working really hard to make this happen, and who also really likes your art. But now—"

"Elizabeth planned this? No wonder, the set up is amazing."

"Don't you dare talk about my wife. You lost that right when you got her kidnapped, and then you disappeared."

"I'm sorry, Peter. I—"

"I'll find you tomorrow, with a warrant for your arrest. You better still be in the country, but know that if you flee there is no place on earth I wouldn't go to hunt you down."


	29. Chapter 29

Elizabeth eyed the line to meet the artist as she worked. It was getting longer, not in the least because there was someone meeting him now that was taking a lot of time. She also couldn't find Peter anywhere.

She turned her back to the line for a minute to check that everything was running smoothly. She got the confirmation, and one of her employees smiled at her knowingly. "We got this. Get in line, you clearly want to meet him." She thanked her and turned around to walk to the back of the line.

Out of nowhere, Peter appeared in front of her. "Hon, I'm sorry, but we have to go."

"Peter? What are you talking about?"

"The artist is, um, not who you think he is."

Elizabeth laughed lightly. "I don't think he's anyone, Peter. He's anonymous. But I want to meet him, and find out."

"No, you don't. Come on, let's go."

Elizabeth's smile dropped. "Peter, I don't know what's going on, but I can't leave. I want to meet the artist, for one, but I also need to be here. This is my job."

"I need to go to the office," Peter said. He was distracted, almost frantic.

Elizabeth grabbed his hand. "Peter. What's wrong?"

"Everything," he whispered.

"Go to the office, there's clearly something you have to do. I'll meet you at home in a few hours."

Peter locked eyes with Elizabeth. "Call me, if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay, hon."

Peter took a deep breath. "I don't want to leave you here."

"Hon, I'll be fine. You go, you clearly need to do something."

He nodded. "I love you, El."

"I love you too."

Elizabeth watched Peter leave the gallery. Something had gotten him really upset, and she couldn't imagine what. It had to do with the artist, though, she was sure of that. Looking around once more at the beautiful paintings around her, she got in line to meet the mysterious man.

The line was long, but Elizabeth didn't mind. She was standing right next to the painting that effortlessly combined the Eiffel Tower and the Chrysler Building. She could stare at it all day, in awe at the way the artist somehow mixed the styles of both buildings to create something new, yet clearly anchored in Paris and New York.

The line moved along, and before she knew it, a gorgeous young woman came out behind the curtain. "I'm Michele," she said, leading Elizabeth inside. "And this is the talented artist himself."

Elizabeth froze in her tracks. "Neal?" she whispered.

"Elizabeth," Neal said, seemingly unsurprised to see her. "This is a beautiful party. You really outdid yourself."

"I could say the same, Neal, your artwork is incredible." Two pairs of blue eyes regarded each other carefully, neither knowing quite how to proceed. "Are you… okay?"

"I'm doing well now. I built a life for myself, an honest one." She raised her eyebrows and he smiled sadly. "I know it's hard to believe, but I haven't broken any laws since I left, Elizabeth. I'm not the man I used to be." He paused, scrutinizing her reaction but not finding anything to work off of. "Are _you_ okay?"

"He never hurt me," Elizabeth said.

"That's not what I meant," Neal said quietly.

Elizabeth hesitated. "I'm back to normal now," she said. "The nightmares have mostly gone. I feel safe again in my own house."

"Elizabeth, I can never apologize enough for the role I had in that. If I could go back I would've done so much differently."

"That's not what I want your apology for, Neal. You didn't kidnap me, you didn't even steal the treasure. But you did disappear. Without saying goodbye, without anything. And then, a year later, Peter learns that you're dead."

"I can't apologize for that, Elizabeth. I am sorry for what it did to you, but I can't apologize for what I did. I needed to leave. Neal Caffrey was gone, I needed to find who I was."

"Did you find him?" Elizabeth asked.

"Go look at the paintings outside," Neal said. "What do you think?"


	30. Chapter 30

It didn't take much for Peter to find the name Neal was using. The gallery had his flight information, and a warrant allowed him to seize it.

"Daniel Thomas," Peter muttered, entering the name into his computer. The results were interesting. Daniel Thomas had shown up out of nowhere almost a year earlier, and gotten a job working museum security at the Louvre. A quick call to the head of security there, where it was morning, found that he was a great help to the security team and had put a stop to multiple robbery attempts. It seemed to fit Neal's story—he owned a house in Paris, and he hadn't been out of France in the past year before coming to New York. That would make the robbery in Italy impossible, Peter thought, before pushing it out of his mind. If there was a way, Neal would find it.

There were fake records of Daniel Thomas attending college, and of work he had done for the FBI. They had no backing, and Peter wondered how he got the security job without anyone doing more than just a cursory check of his background.

The most interesting thing to Peter was that from the date Neal left New York to nearly two months later, when he got the security job, there was no sign of Daniel Thomas or Neal Caffrey anywhere. He must've been using a different alias before he decided to buy the house in Paris. This made Peter curious, but didn't matter on his case overall. Neal Caffrey clearly fled the country and broke his parole, even if he couldn't be caught for stealing the treasure or the painting in Italy. He'd being going to jail regardless.

Peter called in for a warrant to arrest him, before going home. It was late, he'd get the warrant early the next morning, and there was nothing he could do until then. He went home to go see Elizabeth.

She wasn't home yet when he got there. He put some water on to make tea—he knew she liked to have some when she was stressed, and he imagined seeing Neal again would put her in an interesting mood.

She got home not ten minutes after him. "Hon?" she asked, walking into the house. "You here?"

Peter walked out of the kitchen with a mug. "Are you okay?" he asked, handing her the mug and giving her a hug.

"I think so," she said. "What did you find on him?"

"He's going by Daniel Thomas," Peter said. "And he really does have a job working for museum security."

"Museum security? Really?"

"So it seems. I ordered his warrant, it'll be in in the morning."

"You're arresting him." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. Of course. Don't you want to see him back in prison for what he did?"

"It's just... he seemed sincere, Peter."

"It's what conmen do."

"It's more than that. He said he was sorry for what happened to me, but he couldn't apologize for leaving. He said it was what he had to do."

Peter looked at Elizabeth sadly. He had wanted her to have a great night, and it dissolved into this. "I'll take him to interrogation before he goes behind bars again. I'll figure out what the hell happened between that day and today."

"I know you will," Elizabeth said. "But tomorrow. Right now, let's go to bed."

Sleep didn't come very easily for either of them. But what could they really expect, with Neal Caffrey back in their lives?


	31. Chapter 31

Somehow, Neal still managed to have a great night. The Burkes put a damper on it, for sure, but he still loved interacting with the people that loved his work, and he relished every moment that no one knew he was paralyzed. They looked at him with respect and not pity, and he knew getting back into the wheelchair might be amazing for his independence but it would only hurt his psyche.

As damaging as it was to be looked at as a criminal again, Neal realized he still preferred that reaction from Peter than the pity filled stare that he'd get if he'd been in his wheelchair. He was used to the criminal look, and he had plenty of practice spinning it and manipulating it depending on the situation. Pity was something he couldn't twist, and it was something he had promised himself he'd never face again when he was a little boy. Having it disappear from people's faces again was refreshing. If he was going to jail tomorrow, he was happy with his last day as a free man.

The gallery owner reported that nearly all the pieces had been sold in the course of the night, and Neal couldn't believe it. If he didn't know he was heading back to jail the following day, he'd be excited to get working on some new pieces.

Neal and Michele were accompanied by June on the way back. She had come to the gallery later, thoroughly praising all of his work. She'd been about to buy a piece before Neal stopped her, saying it would be his honor to paint one for her. Of course, he might have to get it by prison security first.

Neal told June all about his meetings with Peter and Elizabeth. She was sympathetic, understanding why he didn't share his diagnosis but urging him to tell them on his own terms, before some suits came to haul him away. Neal thanked her, but all of them knew he wouldn't tell them.

June left Neal and Michele to themselves when they got back to the mansion. They went up to Neal's old apartment and made the most of their time together. If he never saw her again, Neal wanted her to remember that night.

* * *

 _This story is going on for longer than I imagined it would, and I'm sorry about that. I've already committed to short chapters, but I'll do my best to post more often. Thank you for hanging in there!_


	32. Chapter 32

The next day came too early. Waking slowly from a deep sleep, Neal rolled over and pulled the wheelchair towards him, transferring to the seat and swinging his legs in after him. Yesterday he had come to terms with the fact that he was going to jail, but after sleeping on it, he realized he was dreading it even more than he had any of the previous times. He wasn't sure he could survive prison this time, what with having been an informant and with the wheelchair, and he didn't want to find out. Neal had half a mind to go to the airport and try to get on the first flight out to anywhere, but he knew it was futile. Peter had to have all the information on him already, and with the wheelchair, there was no way he could get away cleanly.

Instead, he rolled his way into the kitchen and started making breakfast. The smell of eggs woke Michele, and she sat up in the bed.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, turning and smiling at her. Her hair was all over the place and she looked at him with bleary, sleep-laden eyes. He thought she never looked more beautiful.

"Morning," she groaned, flopping back down on the bed. She rolled off it, grabbing the covers and dragging them behind her. She sat down at the table and started eating the eggs Neal put in front of her. "You ready for today?"

"Nope," he said, rolling to sit beside her. "You do realize what's going to happen, right?"

"Not exactly," she said, her tone light as if they were discussing a normal day. He copied her nonchalance.

"Peter's going to show up, he'll have a warrant. He shouldn't make it too hard. I don't know how it'll work with the chair, but I'll probably be in orange by the end of the day." He swallowed roughly. Neal Caffrey would be able to talk about it without emotion, con his way through the whole experience. But Daniel Thomas, the man he'd become over the last year, wasn't ready to go back. It was too hard to fake his way through it—with the loss of feeling in his legs, he had lost the will to lie and shimmy his way through life, living in riches and avoiding consequences. "Whatever happens, Michele, I want you to go back to France tomorrow. Don't get caught up in this, don't try to wait this out. I've ruined one girl's life waiting for me in prison. Don't let yourself get sucked into my tornado."

"Daniel—"

"Michele, please. I don't think I can do this with you here. Go home, tell Mozzie what happened. Sell my art. Everything that's mine is yours."

She reached out and held his hand. "I'll let Mozzie know. He'll figure all this out, you'll be home in no time."

He leaned forward in his chair and kissed her. "I love you, Michele."

"I love you too."

Michele did the dishes while Neal got dressed, and they went downstairs to spend time with June. They had a wonderful time, but Neal kept glancing at the door. It wasn't long before there was a knock.

"FBI! Open up!" Neal recognized Jones's voice.

June stood up to open the door. Neal instinctively rocked backwards, turning to face the door and partially hiding the wheelchair behind the table.

The door opened, and Peter, Jones, and Diana stood in the doorway.


	33. Chapter 33

Jones knocked on the door. "FBI! Open up!" he called.

The door swung open slowly, and Peter saw June standing in front of him. "Agent Burke," she said. Her words were calm, professional, but short and biting too. She was always cordial, yet he knew when he wasn't welcome and this was clearly one of those times.

"Ms. Ellington, I have a warrant for the arrest of Neal Caffrey." Peter lifted the sheet of paper and showed it to her.

She stepped aside, allowing them entry but not inviting them in.

Peter walked through the doorway first, scanning the room. He saw the blond woman from the night before sitting on the couch. Beside her was Neal Caffrey. Sitting in a wheelchair.

Behind him, Jones's jaw dropped and Diana nudged Peter with her elbow. "Boss," she murmured, "when you said you saw him you never mentioned this…"

"Hello, Peter," Neal said. His hands were resting on the wheels of the chair. "Diana, Jones, nice to see you again."

"Caffrey," Jones said, choking out the name. "What happened?"

Neal laughed bitterly. "A lot happened. And I go by Daniel, now. Daniel Thomas." He rolled forward and stopped in front of them, and Peter could only stare. He stuck out his hand to shake theirs, but no one moved. Relenting, he put his hand back down again and rolled his chair back a pace. "I don't know if you've heard, but Neal Caffrey's dead."

There was silence in the room. June was watching the agents' faces disapprovingly, Michele's brow was wrinkled in distress, Neal seemed rather amused by the situation, and Diana, Jones and Peter couldn't stop staring at the man sitting in front of him.

"How long?" Peter finally choked out.

"The whole time," Neal responded. "Keller did it." His eyes darkened at the mention of the name, and Peter realized he didn't know what had happened in New York in the past year.

"He's dead," Peter said. "Someone put out a hit, it was executed by the docks. He was found near a warehouse, which was filled with Nazi treasure. He went down for the crime."

Neal couldn't help but laugh. "So what does that make me?"

"A man who skipped his parole," Peter said.

Neal stuck out his hands, crossed at the wrists. "I believe you want to do this? Just know if you do, you've left me practically immobile. You'll have to push me out of here."

Peter put his hand over his handcuffs, but didn't remove them from his belt. "You can't…" He didn't seem to want to finish the question.

"Walk?" Neal asked.

Peter nodded.

"No. Can't even feel my legs. Spine damage severed the cord completely. There was nothing they could do." He dropped his hands in his lap.

Peter turned to Jones and Diana. "I'm going to need a minute." They nodded, understanding the situation. It wasn't like the lines were ever clear regarding Neal Caffrey, but it seemed they had just gotten even more blurry.

Jones and Diana went to stand outside, and June and Michele retreated upstairs. It was just Peter and Neal alone in the room.

"Tell me everything, and I might be able to keep you out," Peter said.

Neal laughed. "Spare me your pity, Peter. I don't want it. If you want to lock me up, just do it."

"Neal, I don't want to—"

"Yes you do. You want nothing more than for me to be behind bars again. You even said it yourself last night! What changed your mind, the chair?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably, his eyes traveling from Neal's face down to his legs, perched on the footrests of the wheelchair. "Do you want to go to prison?"

"Of course not! I've built a life for myself, one that I rather like. I'm successful, I'm happy, and it's all above the law. Not to mention, we both know that I'd be dead within a month if you throw me back in there."

Peter sat down heavily. "Start at the beginning, Neal. I need to know."

Neal turned his chair so he was facing Peter. "If you insist." He folded his hands in his lap and began. "You and Mozzie got the truck in the right spot, and Keller and I loaded it up with the treasure. There was some trouble with that, but your phone call fixed it. Before I could get in the truck, Keller knocked me out. He stuck me back in the false backing. I woke up when we were on the road. I got out of the false back, grabbed a gold shield to defend myself. He had Napoleon's staff. We started fighting. I got a few blows in, knocked away his weapon, but he hit me over the head with a Raphael. I fell onto my stomach. I'm not really sure what happened after that, but I could only assume he started hitting my back with the staff. He got in a lucky blow, I guess, one that perfectly shattered my spine and severed my spinal cord."

"Neal, I—"

"Mozzie found me, as he told me later," Neal continued, like Peter hadn't spoken. "Took me to a hospital, and they told me I'd never walk again."

"I ran your name through a hospital search," Peter said. "Why didn't you come up?"

"He checked me in under an old alias we'd created years ago," Neal said. "I'd never used it before, but it was set to be an emergency beacon. If I was hurt on the job and desperately needed a hospital, I'd give this name and Mozzie would be able to find me."

Peter nodded. "So then you just decided to leave?"

"I couldn't stay," Neal said. "Neal Caffrey could never survive as a paraplegic. I needed to change my identity, find the new person I'd become."

"I don't understand," Peter interrupted. "Why couldn't you just be in the wheelchair?"

"The one thing that defined my life as Neal Caffrey was action. I was always going towards the next thing, or worming my way out of trouble for the last one. Even in prison, I thought of new ways to escape everyday, and eventually when Kate left, I actually did. I couldn't be that same guy in a wheelchair. On top of that, I was facing prison time for the treasure, anyway. I couldn't be the paraplegic CI, and I certainly couldn't be the inmate in a wheelchair. Add onto that my reputation as an informant, I was looking at certain death."

"You could have at least told me," Peter said.

Neal shook his head. "No. I couldn't have. I wanted to go right away, break ties with everything and everyone. I only saw June because I felt I owed it to her. It made it so hard to go, Peter. But every time I looked at my legs, tried to get my toes to wiggle or pinched myself, it just became even more clear. The life I had here was taken away."

"How long were you in the hospital?" Peter asked. "I couldn't find any records of you until two months later."

"As soon as I was cleared for travel, I went to a rehab facility in Paris. I had to learn to do everything over again, Peter, you have no idea how hard it was. You know what I was like. All of a sudden I couldn't sit up, I had to be helped onto the toilet, my body wasn't my own. It took a month before I adjusted to it, and still I only had a tiny fraction of the independence I had before."

"So after rehab, you went and bought a house?"

"Actually, Mozzie bought it for me," Neal said, smiling. "It's a gorgeous house, Peter, really amazing. Everything is accessible, I never feel helpless there, and Mozzie added an art studio in the back."

"Helpless?" Peter asked, his brow furrowed. It was never a word he'd ever use to describe Neal Caffrey.

"Yeah, helpless, Peter. When you go to the grocery store, do you think about how everything is in your reach? When you order food, do you realize some people can't see over the counter? When you climb a few stairs, do you ever look around for a ramp or an elevator near by?"

"My god, Neal. I'm sorry, I—"

"It's fine, Peter," Neal said sincerely. "I've gotten used to all of it. I hardly even notice it anymore, it's just part of life."

Peter decided to change the subject. "How'd you get the job working for museum security?"

"I was in the Louvre, it was about a week after I'd gotten out of rehab. I noticed some guys acting shifty, and so I told security. They didn't believe me until the men actually tried to rob the place. They weren't able to, and the head of security was impressed I'd noticed it before anyone else. He basically hired me on the spot."

"No one checked your credentials?" Peter asked. "I looked over them—there's enough there for a cursory look, but it would all fall apart with one phone call."

"He was so impressed he didn't even look before he offered me the job. He did ask for my background, so I told him. There's a right way to tell a story Peter, I might not be Neal Caffrey anymore but I know that much."

Peter tilted his head slightly, confused. Neal rolled his eyes, smiling all the same. "I have to spell this out for you? I just mixed the interning-for-the-FBI story with the losing-my-ability-to-walk story. No one wants to ask more questions after that."

Peter smirked. "It seems not everything has changed." He paused. "You keep saying you're happy, that you have a life now."

"I am, and I do."

"So why come back here? You knew this was a possibility."

"I wasn't going to, at first," Neal said. "I was approached with the opportunity because of my art. It's equally New York as it is Paris, so they wanted to feature it here. I said yes, but I turned down the trip that went with it."

Peter nodded. "Elizabeth said the party was cancelled for a while—that the artist wasn't coming. What changed your mind?"

"You did," Neal said. "The voicemail you left for me, back when I was in the hospital. I hadn't heard it until then, and when I did, it reminded me of everything I left behind in New York. I was never planning on seeing you, I would've put a thousand to one odds that you would be at a gallery party, and I wanted to reconnect with the city. Michele encouraged it, and when Mozzie said he could kill Neal Caffrey and get me in and out safely, I decided to do it. I knew the risks, but I never actually thought it would come to this.

"So Mozzie stole the painting from the Italian museum?" Peter asked.

"Allegedly," Neal said, smiling widely. "I did paint the replacement, but it's labeled as a reproduction, not a forgery. Look at it under blacklight if you don't believe me. I swear, I haven't done anything illegal since you last saw me."

"And now Neal Caffrey is dead," Peter said.

Neal nodded. "The death certificate is real, Peter. I'm Daniel Thomas. I have a passport and birth certificate that say so."

"You always have everything planned out, don't you?"

"Not everything," Neal said, rocking back in his wheelchair, his eyes on his unfeeling legs. "Not everything."


	34. Chapter 34

Peter went outside to talk to Jones and Diana, so Neal went to the back of the house and took the elevator up to his room. June and Michele were talking, but they stopped and looked up at him when he came in.

"Peter and I had a long talk," Neal said. "He's not going to arrest me."

Michele let out a breath and nearly jumped into Neal's arms. "Oh, Daniel, thank god. I'm so sorry I pushed you into this."

Neal smiled and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm glad you did."

June smiled at him. "Does that mean you're leaving again soon?"

"Yes," Neal said, "but I think I'll push back the trip a few days, if that's okay with you."

June smiled. "You know you are always welcome here."

"Thank you, June. I hate to ask, you've already done too much for me, but would you mind hosting dinner tonight? Peter demanded I come clean to Elizabeth, and Jones and Diana are going to want to hear the story too. He offered his house, but it's not exactly accessible."

"Of course! It's been too long since I've seen Elizabeth, anyway."

"Thank you, June."

Michele and Neal spent the afternoon in New York City. Now that he didn't have to worry about running into law enforcement, he had a great time showing Michele around the city. He found it interesting seeing it from his new, lower to the ground perspective, and he couldn't wait to start painting again.

When they returned, they found a wonderful meal being made. The house smelled delicious. Michele and Neal went up to change, and they came down in time to meet Peter and Elizabeth at the door.

"Neal!" Elizabeth exclaimed when she walked in, her face going pale at the sight of him. "Oh my god, are you okay? What happened?"

Peter walked in behind her. "Sorry, Neal," he said, laughing. "I thought you should have this moment."

"Come sit down, Elizabeth," he said. "I'll tell the story later, don't worry. I want you to meet Michele, my girlfriend." The two walked away, chatting amiably.

Peter put his hand on Neal's shoulder, stopping him from following them. Neal looked up at him. "Tell Mozzie he did a great job on the death certificate," Peter said. "I had to put the reason for not following through on the arrest, so I cited your death certificate. It went through the channels, and there were no flags raised."

Neal smiled. "I told you Neal's dead."

Peter walked towards the women before Neal stopped him. "Peter. Elizabeth wants the full story."

"Of course she does," Peter said. Things had warmed up between them since the night before, but at this his gaze hardened. "You owe that much to her, Neal."

"It's not that," Neal said, frustrated. "It's Keller. Is she okay hearing about that time?"

Peter softened, realizing Neal only had Elizabeth's best interests in mind. "Yeah, she's okay now. Since Keller's death she's been better, more open to mentions of it. You can tell the story as it is."

"Thanks, Peter. I'm glad she's good now. You know I never had any intention of hurting her or you or anyone else, right?"

"I know," Peter said. "And I am accepting that you can't apologize for leaving. Can you accept that I can't fully forgive you?"

Neal nodded. They were back at their usual give and take—not fully on the same page as each other, but having a friendship in spite of that.

The doorbell rang. "That's my cue," Neal said, and rolled his way to the door before Peter could offer to get it for him. He opened the door a crack before pushing his chair back with one hand and opening the door fully with the other. Peter marveled about how smooth it was—it was clearly second nature, but it was just as clear that it once had been a hard task to manage.

Jones and Diana walked in, greeting Neal. Neal welcomed them into the house, and ushered everyone towards the table. He rolled in at a place set without a chair, locking his wheels, before squeezing Michele's hand. He looked around the table at all the friendly faces, and he realized that although his life had changed drastically in the last year, there was no where he'd rather be than with those people around that table, wheelchair or not.


	35. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Michele kept laughing at him, but he couldn't help but feel nervous. He wanted to clean up the house, make everything look perfect for their arrival, but it was impossible now that Morgan had just started walking. She was just over a year and a half old, and definitely a handful, but she brought the same light to Neal's eyes that Michele had always loved when he painted.

Neal hadn't seen Peter and Elizabeth in person in almost three years. He had gone back to New York a year after he'd reunited with them, but without Michele. Mozzie decided to come at the last minute, and the two of them had fun rehashing old memories of the city, particularly the moments that Peter wouldn't ever hear about for the sake of legality. Neal made another appearance at the gallery, again behind the curtain and in a regular chair. He asked Elizabeth to be the one to escort people inside, and she clearly had the time of her life doing so. Neal said was willing to mingle with the audience this time, but the gallery owner said the mystery of it had been such a hit that she suggested he did it again, and once again he reveled in the experience. This time the round of paintings that were sold at rapid fire pace centered entirely around New York City, portraying the city from various angles and giving the buildings a very modern Picasso-type look. Neal painted to reflect every way he had seen the city before: from his chair looking upwards, as a regular pedestrian back when he could walk, and soaring above it after base-jumping from one of its buildings. It summed up Neal, rather than the city, but the people seemed to love it.

"Hey, will you grab Morgan?" Michele asked. "I'm going to finish washing the dishes."

"Yeah, of course," Neal said.

He made his way to the side of the house, an extension they'd added when they realized Michele was pregnant. Morgan was in her room, and she was just waking up from a nap. She smiled wide when he came in.

"Hey, Morgo," Neal whispered, lifting her onto his lap and cradling her.

"Dada!" she said, grabbing onto him. He laughed and kissed her face. She meant the world to him, and he couldn't possibly be happier than he was when he was holding her in his arms.

He put her on his lap and started towards the living room, when the doorbell rang. Morgan looked up at the sound. "You're about to meet some good friends of mine, Morgan. Uncle Peter and and Aunt El. Yes, I'm excited too," he said as she sat up straight and laughed, the sound filling him with joy.

He rolled up to the front of the house as Michele was opening the door.

"Hey, Peter," Neal said, smiling up at the man.

"Neal! Wow, is this Morgan?"

"Yeah." Neal grabbed one of her hands and waved it at Peter. "Can you say hi?"

Morgan just looked up at him with big, round, blue eyes that seemed to take up nearly half of her face. She'd inherited them from her father, that much was clear. Neal tussled her wisps of golden blond hair, grinning. "She'll warm up to you, don't worry. Hi, Elizabeth."

"Neal," she said, bending over to hug him and look at Morgan. "She's beautiful."

"Yeah," Neal said quietly. "She is."

It was a long night of catching up, story telling and baby cooing. Morgan loved the attention, but soon her eyes were drooping. Michele said she'd take her to bed, and Elizabeth went to help.

Peter stood up when they left, turning slowly in a circle to take in the house. He'd never been before, and he looked impressed. "You've really done it, Neal," he said. He stared for a minute at the four canvases, hanging side by side, showing the view from his old apartment at June's. "Do you ever miss it?"

"All the time," Neal said, "but also not at all."

Peter looked at him quizzically.

"I look back fondly. They weren't all good times, but they paint a good picture. Sometimes in my dreams I'm still Neal Caffrey, working on release for the FBI. The conman with the ability to jump off of rooftops, with the possibility to leave at any time and never be traced—"

"Hey!" Peter said.

"—but choosing to stay exactly where he is, and work with the people he respects and admires. It's a great dream, Peter. But then I wake up and realize I need to drag my legs into a chair in order to get around, I still know I wouldn't go back. Not ever. Not if you gave me a time machine, or a fresh spinal cord. There is no place or time I would rather be than right here, right now. Michele is my savior and Morgan is my life and I wouldn't choose any other way."


	36. Author's Notes

**Author's Notes**

For those of you who stuck with this from the very beginning to the very end, I owe you immense gratitude. For all of you who reviewed, I want to particularly say thank you. I write because I love to write, but those reviews made me want to post all the more. Really, everyone who read this is wonderful. I'm so sad that the show's over, but I'm glad there are still fans out there recreating and rereading Neal's story.

Before I sign off, I thought I'd share this: the story is called Ends and Means because of the well-known question 'Does the end satisfy the means?' Apart from this question being very relevant to Neal and Peter's relationship, I thought about it because I wanted to explore a different ending to the whole Keller treasure situation, one in which Neal ends up happy but at a great personal cost. The question can be applied to this story: Was the ending (Neal's happiness, family, and chance at a criminal record-free past) worth the means to get there (the loss of use in his legs)? I have my own opinion, which I think shows in the story, but feel free to make up your own mind.

That's all. Until next time!

\- E4Flying -


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